Blood & Banners
by 2ns
Summary: When Sandor Clegane arrives at Winterfell, riding under the Stark banner with Jon Snow, Sansa offers him a position to keep him at Winterfell. He soon becomes her shield and sole comfort, healing her body and soul after Bolton's abuse. War looms, but Sansa must make difficult choices if she is to keep Wintefell, her honor, and her beloved. M for adult content/language. SANSAN
1. Chapter 1

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Clipped Wings

Sansa and Lyanna stood atop the wall of Winterfell, looking south. Sansa had become as cold and stoic as the stone of the keep, and she watched for many hours every day, preferring the icy wind to the scrutiny of the household. Though Winterfell was her home, it no longer held the same warmth it had before the Boltons ravaged it.

The Mormonts had been the first to respond to Jon's muster and had arrived in advance of their liege himself. Lyanna had become a frequent companion, preferring Sansa's taciturn silence to the senseless twaddle of other women. They watched in silence as black riders trudged through the snow, the jingling of the tack occasionally borne back to them on the wind. A handful of bannermen straggled behind the King of the North, accompanied by Wildings. Lyanna assessed them critically, counting her own men. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Who is that rider beside Jon Snow? He's neither a Northerner nor a Wilding."

Sansa flicked her eyes over Lyanna with silent amusement. Though she was only a maid of twelve, she was far shrewder than most men thrice her age. _She'd have made a fine queen_ , she mused. "Sandor Clegane."

"The Lannister Hound?"

Sansa nodded, thoughtfully. "Not anymore. He abandoned their cause after the Battle of Blackwater."

Lyanna lifted her chin. "For all the stories I've heard, I'd not have thought him a coward."

"He's not." Her words had come out sharper than she'd intended. Lyanna looked up at her and lifted a brow in silent query. Sansa's chin rose. "He was disgusted by the cowardice of King Joffrey, and refused to shed another drop of his blood for a king so undeserving his sacrifice." Privately, Sansa reflected that the wildfire raining down upon the garrison troops had likely been living hell for Clegane, and had had no small part in his desertion. She would never forget that Clegane alone had offered to liberate her from her misery in the Red Keep. Nor would she forget the many small kindnesses he had shown her, the only succor he could offer as the cruel king's sworn shield. She glanced at Mormont. "He was one of the very few men left in King's Landing with any shred of honor."

Lyanna and Sansa were waiting for the riders when they swept gratefully in through the Winterfell gates. The Mormont riders dropped immediately into obeisance at Lyanna's feet, and she spoke to them with authority in a child's quiet tenor. She led them away without a glance at Sansa. Their commander had already started issuing his brisk report of their mission.

Sansa waited patiently for her brother to acknowledge her after dismissing the men. After a glance of wary acknowledgement in her direction, Sandor Clegane shouldered his saddle bags and started to trudge through the grimy sludge of the courtyard towards the barracks, having handed his enormous horse off to a quivering stable lad.

"Clegane!"

Jon Snow and Clegane both looked up at her hail. After a nod to the Master of Horse, Snow handed the reins of his mount away, and both men approached. Clegane reached her first.

"Little bird." He glowered down at her and murmured, "I'm pleased to see the Bolton bastard didn't clip your wings."

Sansa narrowed her eyes, trying to assess if he was jesting. His expression and tone were grim, and she saw sympathy mingled with seething anger in the depths of his dark eyes. She released a breath she'd not realized she'd been holding and nodded her acknowledgement.

"I'm grateful to see your blade beneath Stark colors. I guarantee Jon will put it to better use than the Lannisters did."

Clegane barked a rough laugh and grinned ironically at Sansa. "The fucking Stranger knows where to find me, regardless if my blood is on a Lannister or Stark banner."

"That's not how one speaks to the Lady of Winterfell." Jon had arrived, his eyes flashing at Clegane.

Clegane snorted and answered with derision. "Yes, my liege." He turned his gaze back to Sansa with genuine amusement. Glancing at her stern bastard brother, she repressed the smile that twitched at her lips. Clegane was coarse, but he was forthright and honorable. It was a welcome respite from the shifting loyalties and petty intrigues that seemed to always swirl around her.

"I'm well acquainted with Clegane's ways. He was often set to guard me in the Red Keep." She flicked her eyes back to Clegane. "Where are you quartered?"

Jon answered for him. "In the barracks."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at Jon. "Clegane is the only representative of his house." She ignored Clegane's snort. "I'll find him quarters amongst the other lords. His experience as a battle commander and with Lannister tactics are invaluable."

"I'm no lord or ser. The barracks are fine."

Sansa folded her hands before her, lifted an arched brow, pursed her lips, and tipped her head in an imperious expression stolen right of Cersei Lannister's smug face. She narrowed her eyes for good measure at the two men looming over her, and both fell silent, though Jon's mouth had popped open to voice his own opposition.

"I'm still the Lady of Winterfell. I will decide where our guests are to be quartered." Jon mouthed the word 'guests' with a sneer and a sharp look at Clegane. Sansa ignored him and gave Clegane a last long look before turning. Over her shoulder, she tossed, "I will expect to see you seated appropriately at table."


	2. Chapter 2

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

A Debt Remembered

Through dinner, Sansa kept one eye on Clegane. He was sprawled at the lowest position at the table with the garrison and house commanders, a flagon of ale at his elbow. The men gave him a wide berth.

Jon followed Sansa's gaze. "Of all people for you to take note of, why Clegane?"

Sansa looked up. She hadn't realized she was staring. "I owe him a great debt. More than can be repaid by courtesy and finer accommodations than the barracks."

Jon sat back in his chair and considered Clegane with surprise. "That must be quite a tale."

Sansa took a sip of her wine. "You wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

Sansa's eyes flicked back to Clegane, and their gazes met. She lifted her goblet slightly in salute, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Joffrey abandoned me during a riot, and Clegane disobeyed the king's direct orders. He waded into the frenzied mob to find me and intervened in something . . . distasteful." Her sweet mouth twisted on the word. She turned nark, narrow eyes on her brother. "Had it been any other man but the Hound, Joff would have had his head on a pike."

Sansa frowned as Clegane stood and stalked out of the hall. "Clegane had Joff's ear, and I suspect he stayed the king's hand more times than I know. He was often set to stand watch over me, and I came to realize that the only men of honor left in the Red Keep were Tyrion Lannister and Sandor Clegane. Excuse me."

Jon looked up at his sister in surprise as she rose. "Where are you going?"

"I'm the Lady of Winterfell. Wherever I please."

Sansa paced briskly around the perimeter of the great hall, and she could feel Jon's eyes burning into her back. Jon had no doubt already guessed her destination, but she didn't feel the need to explain herself to the King of the North.

By the time the door of the great hall closed behind her, Clegane's long strides had carried him to the end of the corridor. Knowing there was unlikely to be anyone around to see, she picked up her heavy skirts and jogged after him.

"Clegane!"

At the sound of his name, Clegane stopped and turned. He waited patiently for her to catch him up.

"Lady Sansa."

Rejecting both lord and ser as appropriate titles, Sansa was often unsure about how to address him. "Will you walk with me? There is something I'd like to discuss with you."

Clegane nodded suspiciously. "Aye, my Lady."

Sansa led Clegane through the more public corridors surrounding the great hall. "How did you come to be riding with the King of the North to Winterfell?"

"That's a long and boring tale, my Lady. The King of the North needed another blade in his parlay with Cersei. When our business in King's Landing was at an end, I rode north with him."

In spite of herself, Sansa smiled. She had no doubt there was much more to the story, but Clegane would have to be pressed before he would offer more.

"Have you sworn your sword to Jon?"

Clegane cut a sharp glance at Sansa and answered with a bite, "No, my Lady."

Sansa proceded cautiously. "I wonder . . . I find myself deeply indebted to you for your many past kindnesses," Clegane snorted, but Sansa continued, "and now that you are here, I thought I might be in a position to offer you some small token of my esteem."

"What?" Clegane had stopped with military precision, and her stride carried her past him.

Sansa turned to face Clegane. "Having relieved yourself of service to the Lannisters, I was wondering if you might be persuaded to enter service for the Starks." Clegane frowned and narrowed his eyes. Sansa rushed on, "More specifically, I hoped you would consider pledging yourself to me."

Clegane rocked back on his heels and rested his hand on the pommel of his blade. "You want me to be your sworn shield."

Now that he said it plain, it sounded silly. What need did the Lady of Winterfell have of a sworn shield within the walls of her own keep? The thought no more crossed her mind than it was replaced with her mother's face, drained of color after Catelyn Stark's throat was cut by her own bannerman.

Sansa swallowed thickly. "Yes."

Clegane lowered his face to meet hers. "After serving Joffrey fucking Baratheon, after being the Lannister's dog, you'd trust me to guard House Stark?"

Sansa's lips tightened. "Yes."

Clegane huffed in derision and continued stalking down the corridor. "I doubt the King of the North would agree with your assessment."

"I didn't ask his opinion." She stretched her legs to match his strides. "I didn't ask you to be his man; I asked you to be mine."

Clegane glanced out the corner of his eye at her. "You sure about that, Lady? I doubt he'll see the difference. I've had enough bowing and scraping and groveling for kings to last me a lifetime."

Sansa stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I don't need you to bow or scrape or grovel. I trust you, and I'd have you at my side if you would consent to it." Clegane glared down at Sansa. "I think you are less interested in the color of your banner than in the manner of the men that stand behind it."

He nodded curtly. "Aye."

"A Stark is nothing if not honorable. If you pledge your shield to me, I promise you'll never be asked to commit the kind of atrocities that so amused Joffrey."

Clegane brushed the side of his thumb down Sansa's jaw and murmured, "No, little bird, I'm sure I won't."

For a moment, Clegane towered over her again in her cage in the Red Keep. Sansa felt herself perched again on the cusp of the maelstrom, Clegane poised again to be her rock. Her reverie was broken by a pair of maids bursting into the corridor giggling.

Clegane straightened and stepped away from Sansa. He watched the maids pass, their eyes wide as saucers and barely able to contain their tittering.

"Allow me to think on it, my Lady." He offered a sincere, if stiff bow. "Can I escort you back to the hall?"

Sansa gave him a formal, noncommittal smile. "Thank you, Clegane, no. I'd walk by myself for a time before retiring. Good night."

Clegane nodded. "Good night, my Lady."


	3. Chapter 3

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Threats, Oaths, and Tall Tales

When Sansa emerged from her room in the morning, she found Sandor Clegane standing at attention before her door. He'd washed away the road, and beneath his chain, he wore a dark grey tunic that was likely the closest thing he owned to Stark colors.

"Good morning, my Lady."

Sansa lifted her brows. "Does this mean that you will consent to being my sworn shield?"

Clegane grimaced down at her. "I'm of no mind to take any more oaths, my Lady, but if you've need of my blade, it's yours to command."

Sansa nodded solemnly. "The last time I swore an oath, the words tasted like bile and choked me like ash. It broke my heart to make that oath in the godswood, and I prayed for death every day until I fed my husband to his hounds." She tightened her lip that it would not tremble. "I don't need an oath. Your word is good enough for me."

When Sansa arrived in the great hall on Clegane's arm, Jon choked on his wine. Due to the early hour, few were at table, but those that were goggled openly. Jon's eyes widened as Clegane led her to the high table and then stepped back against the wall behind her.

Glancing at Clegane, she explained, "I've added a retainer to the household."

Leaning close, Jon hissed, "Don't you think we should have discussed this?"

Sansa narrowed her eyes dangerously. "We just did." She cracked open a steaming roll and spread it with soft cheese before continuing, "A great number of strangers now find themselves passing through the halls of Winterfell to seek counsel with the King of the North. Not all of them are to be trusted. The Freys and Karstarks come to mind. I took the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with—"

She turned in her seat and addressed Clegane. "I'd not thought. How would you prefer to be addressed in the household?"

"Surely—" Sansa silenced Jon with a sharp look and turned her attention back to her shield.

He subtly shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "I'll answer regardless of how you address me, my Lady."

Sansa frowned. "That won't do. I know you won't answer to Lord or Ser Clegane, even though you're surely the rightful heir to your family's manor and at least two different kings have tried to knight you. Just Clegane, then?"

"As you wish, my Lady."

"Have you eaten yet this morning?"

Reluctantly, he admitted, "No, my Lady."

Sansa offered him the steaming bread. When Clegane blinked in surprise but made no move to take it, she realized she must have made some kind of blunder. She stuttered, "Very well. Do break your fast. Perhaps you could ride out with Lyanna Mormont and me when we visit the camps this morning."

"Yes, my Lady."

Jon watched Clegane's broad back retreat from the hall speculatively. "Now that you've got the Hound, I hope you've some idea what to do with him."

"He hates that."

"What? Being called the Hound?"

"Mmm hmm." Sansa delicately sucked a smear of cheese from her fingertips. "You can address him as Clegane or not at all. I'd advise your men not call him the Hound in his hearing. I've seen him kill men outright for less." Sansa sighed. "Frankly, I don't care what Clegane does at Winterfell, but I'll feel better having his sword within our walls when your forces return to the Wall."

"I won't leave Winterfell undefended. We will have to have some position to fall back to should the Wall be overrun."

"A full garrison is one thing, but I wanted someone here that would enforce my commands without question."

Tentatively, John offered, "I doubt your authority would be questioned, but if you had a husband, there'd be no need—"

"No."

Jon leaned close and muttered, "We've not spoken much of Bolton, but I have some idea of what happened here." Sansa's eyes burned, and Jon wisely decided to alter tack. He set his jaw and insisted, "These are hard times, Sansa. You should reconcile yourself now that you will likely need to marry to solidify our ties with another family. Even within the North, some houses are unwilling to recognize me as a Stark."

"Imagine how much easier it would have been had you not bent your knee to the Targaryan woman and pledged the North to her banner. How long are you going to wait to explain to your bannermen that you've handed your crown and their sons over to her?" She pointed at her brother with a crust of bread to emphasize her point. "Now that is something we probably should have discussed before you did it, Jon." Sansa swiveled her head to glare at him.

He swallowed audibly. "Who told you?"

"Lyanna's men love her, and one way or another, the truth always finds its way from their lips to her ear. Lyanna and I spoke last night at supper, and Clegane confirmed it for me before breakfast. Lyanna is withholding judgment for now." Sansa leaned close and murmured, "Personally, I think she wants to see those dragons for herself." Sitting back in her chair, she continued, "Davos convinced her that the dragons are real enough, but I'm not sure I'd have believed it myself without Clegane's testimony."

Jon looked down into his plate. Sansa couldn't decide if it was regret or shame that made him unable to look at her. "You learned much in the Red Keep. I barely recognize you."

Sansa watched as bannermen filtered in to break their fast. Winterfell was bursting at the seams, and the great hall seemed to always be full these days. She noted which Houses sat together, which sneered at the other, how individual men ranged themselves along the table. She saw secrets passed beneath the table and knowing glances shared between confidants. She knew now why the high table overlooked their vassals.

"I had a front row seat to the court of Cersei Lannister, and while she hissed honeyed threats into one of my ears, Petyr Baelish purred sweet lies into the other. They were hard lessons, brother, but I learned. Since I returned to Winterfell, I've learned who to trust, and I know what buys their secrets." Sansa stood and glared coldly down at her earnest, guileless brother. "You need far more alliances than you could ever purchase by marrying me off. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and the only way I'll ever cede this keep again is if I'm laid in my tomb."

Jon stood and murmured sympathetically, "The North makes for hard men, Sansa. If I am lost in the North, you will need a man to stand beside you to bring some of them to heel. Otherwise, you risk the factions between our bannermen to splintering further."

"Perhaps that day will come, but it's not today. Look to your men." When Jon glanced up, many faces turned away, and the silence of whispers roared through the hall. "A lost Targaryan riding a dragon and destroying an army of the dead . . . that's a tale with wings of its own. You'll want to get control of it before it spirals out of control and the men decide we've another mad king on our hands."


	4. Chapter 4

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Dissent

Rumors on foot and by raven had been filtering into the North for days, but with the return of the king, the houses wanted firm answers. By midmorning, the mustered troops were growing increasingly restless. Lyanna rode on one side of Sansa and Clegane on the other, his sword loosed in its scabbard.

"Jon will have to address the rumors tonight, or we'll have blood on the ground by morning."

"There's already been bloodshed over it, my Lady."

When Sansa looked to Lyanna for confirmation, she glowered at Clegane before elaborating, "One of the fool Glovers got too deep into his cup last night and accused one of my men of telling tall tales to entertain the Mormont brat." She grimaced.

Sansa turned to her shield. "How did you know, Clegane?"

Clegane threw a dark look at Lyanna. "Who do you think separated them?" He pointed with his chin at an encampment of Mazins, half drunk before midday and wiling away their time dicing. "There's too many men gathered here with too little to do. Boredom and drink and too few whores are as dangerous to an army as plague. How long does Snow plan to wait for the Houses to muster to Winterfell?"

"I'll ask him. Something will need to be devised to keep the men occupied. Too many wagging tongues will only put pressure on the fissures between houses."

"Why aren't they training? Some of these fuckers look like they've never held a sword in their lives. We send this lot against the wights, we'll only be increasing the ranks of the dead."

Sansa and Lyanna exchanged alarmed looks. "I'll mention it. Anything else?"

Clegane snorted. "There's nowhere near enough space in the barracks. If he means to keep these men sleeping in tents outside the keep walls, in two weeks, he'll be lucky if half of them haven't lost toes to the frost. This is the fucking North! Don't you people know how to keep warm?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"If Clegane knows so much, maybe you'd like him to take over the army!"

Sansa had immediately confronted Jon when they returned to the keep, and their conversation had quickly escalated. "He's been soldiering for the Lannisters since he was thirteen years old! If he tells you there's a problem, you'd do well to listen. If your men can't walk, they'll never make it to the Wall."

Jon fumed in silence for a few minutes before conceding, "He's right about the barracks. It's my intention to move the men to the Wall and quarter them there, but without provisions, they will starve rather than freeze. Most houses brought provisions to carry them through their journey to the Wall, but little more. The Vale and the Riverlands have promised to send ships north to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower by the end of the month, but until I know for sure, we can't march north. The Reach has also pledged their support, but I'm skeptical that Lannister ships will allow Highgarden's fleet to pass through their waters unmolested."

John opened the shutter and squinted into the glare reflected from the snow. "Damn him, he's right about the training too. I saw it myself at the Wall. Most of these men are cottars, miners, and fishermen. They are strong and willing, but the only thing they know about blades is how to find the pointy end."

Jon perched on the window ledge and sucked in an icy breath. "The truth is, I'm grateful Clegane is here. Without him, we'd never have managed the wight. He was the only one of us with the strength to control it, and he's absolutely fearless."

"What wight?"

Jon turned to face his sister. "He didn't tell you? You haven't heard the rumors?"

Sansa shook her head. "He just told me that he went with you to parlay with Cersei, and no one tells the Lady of the keep the rumors whispered in the barracks. You mean to tell me you took one of the walking dead with you to King's Landing?"

"It was the only way to make the lords of Westeros believe."

"In the future, I'd be grateful if you would confide in me. House Stark has been too long divided against itself. If we don't pull together now, all of Westeros could pay the price."

Jon nodded. "Thank you, Sansa. You've done well. Clegane told you more today than he said to me the entire ride north. Maester Wolkan can put together some plans that will serve so that we can put the men to work right away on the barracks. Perhaps between building and training, we can keep their minds off the cold."

He sighed. "If you don't mind, I'd like some time before I have to face the hall tonight."

Before she opened the door, Sansa quipped, "And Jon, should I lend you Clegane's sword in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd be more careful with him."

Sansa stepped out of Jon's quarters to be faced with her scowling shield. "What was all the yelling about, Lady? I had half a mind to break it up."

"He didn't like what I had to tell him, and he was none too keen on the source, either." She shrugged. "He may yell now, but he's my brother, and it'll be forgiven by supper."

Quietly, Clegane growled, "I wouldn't know."

Sansa knew the slightest mention of his brother turned Clegane's mood foulest black. She took his arm and demanded brightly, "Tell me about the wight."

Clegane's long nose crinkled. "He smelled."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The hall was rank with mistrust and fear. It buzzed quiet and sharp, like a hornet's nest about to erupt. Everywhere she looked, Sansa saw shifting eyes and shifting alliances. She had half a mind to order another cask of ale opened, but she wasn't sure if that would help or loosen tongues until there was a brawl. Clegane was right. There would be blood on the floor this night.

Jon was squirming uncomfortably in his chair, trying to decide when to speak. Clegane stood close enough that Sansa could hear his mail when he shifted position, and she felt heat radiating from his body against her neck. Much of the evening, he'd stood with his hand on the back of her chair. Whether that was to dissuade any bannermen from approaching the high table or just so that he could put his hands on her quickly if a fight broke out, she didn't know. Either way, Clegane wasn't going to permit another Stark massacre on his watch.

Clegane bent low and murmured into Sansa's ear. "My Lady, perhaps you should consider retiring for the night. The men have had all day to brood and drink. It'll be a miracle if there's no deaths before the king is done speaking."

"I appreciate that, but I think Jon's going to need all the support he can get." She shot a look at Lyanna Mormont, who was looking stonier by the moment.

Loud enough that Jon would hear it, Clegane answered, "Then he'd better get the fuck on with it."

Jon rose with a resentful glance at Clegane, and the shield stepped back into the shadows against the wall. Sansa felt bare without his presence at her back.

"I'd like to thank all of you for coming. It is a hard thing to contemplate war on the edge of winter, and I'm grateful you have answered my summons. As most of you will have heard by now, I took a small party into the North. We were able to capture a wight—"

"Bullshit."

Jon's head snapped up. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the hall, looking for the man who had spoken. Too many heads nodded to determine who it had been. Clegane's blade hissed against its locket as he eased it a few inches from the scabbard. He was once again at her back.

"—and take it to King's Landing to prove to the lords of Westeros that the dead are walking. They have pledged their aid, and we expect supplies and reinforcements to join your muster at Winterfell in the coming weeks. We were also aided by Queen Danerys Targaryan," a murmur swept through the hall, "whose dragons were the best defense against the White Walkers and their army of the dead."

A bench scraped the floor near the back of the hall, and one of the young Karstarks stood. Sansa was surprised that Alys Thenn had permitted Karstark men to accompany their house. She tensed, and Clegane's hand fell heavy on her shoulder. She glanced up at him, but he stared intently at the Karstark.

"Well, well, well. Dragons, White Walkers, lost princesses, and queens! You've had quite a week, Jon Snow. Did you see any fairies?" Dark laughter rumbled through the hall. Tarn Karstark held out his arms appreciatively and turned on the spot. "So where is this wight now? For that matter, where's these dragons?"

Tarn laughed derisively, and Sansa wondered if he was indeed drunk. "We're just supposed to take the word of the bastard Stark and the Lannister Hound for it?"

Sansa glanced at Clegane. His hand was wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and he was watching Jon intently. Clegane was waiting for the order that should have already come; Joffrey would have had the man's head rolling across the floor by now.

"We destroyed the wight. Queen Danerys returned with her remaining dragons to muster her own forces. She has promised to aid us in our fight against the White Walkers in exchange for our allegiance when she attempts to retake the Iron Throne."

Outrage had erupted in the hall. John tried to yell over the cacophony, and cold dread slithered into Sansa's belly when Clegane drew his sword. He slammed the flat of the enormous blade down on the center of the high table and bellowed, "Shut the fuck up!"

Although the chatter didn't stop entirely, most gawked. Clegane glared around at the assembly daring anyone to question his authority. In the stunned silence, he growled, "Your chosen fucking king's speaking. You honestly think I'd come all the way to the North, freezing my ass off the whole way to lie to you? I could be in King's Landing, with better weather, better wine, and better whores."

Sansa was surprised when appreciative laughter rolled through the hall, and the tension ebbed considerably. Clegane glowered darkly at the assembled northern lords, daring any of them to speak out of turn again as he reclaimed his place behind Sansa.

Tired of the bickering, Sansa stood behind the high table. She pressed her hands into the cloth until her fingers turned white and glared out at the assembled men. "Winter is coming, and so is the army of the dead. The time for dissention amongst yourselves based on blood and banners is over. There is only one banner that matters, and that is the banner of the living. Either you stand with the living or you consign your women and children to the army of the dead." Sansa glanced at Jon, and he nodded his thanks. "The time has come for you to decide whose side you are on."

Lyanna stood up from amongst her men. Unlike the other lords, she took her meals with her retainers and dressed in the same rough wools, leathers, and bear furs. She knew the name of every man in her service, every stable lad, every swordsman, and even the names of their dozen or so cavalry horses. She had earned the grudging respect of the other northern lords through her ruthless practicality and stoic honesty. When she spoke, they listened.

Lyanna stepped first upon her bench and then upon the table. An awed hush fell over the room. "When we swear an oath on Bear Island, we see it done. We swore an oath to muster to the King of the North's banner when he called, and nothing has changed. If the Targaryan woman proves her worth against the White Walkers, we will gladly put our support behind her to rout the Lannisters from King's Landing." She nodded in Jon's direction. "Our blades are yours to command."

Murmurs rippled around the hall, but the tone had changed. Sansa sensed that though most houses were still wary, they believed. More importantly, they were willing to recommit their men and blades to defending the North.

As the hall emptied, Sansa continued leaning on the table, glaring at the Karstarks. They remained in their corner, muttering and glancing at the high table.

"Clegane."

"Yes, Lady Sansa?"

"You know where the Karstarks are lodged in my keep?"

"Of course, Lady."

"Take me there."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Tarn stumbled drunkenly into his quarters, his arm was draped around the neck of a Stark maid. The giggling maid staggered into the wall under his weight. She righted her cap and glanced up to find Sansa's cold eyes watching the scene impassively. Sansa narrowed her eyes at the maid, and she fled.

"Lord Karstark. I hope you don't mind, but I craved a moment of your time." She flicked her eyes at the chair already drawn up to the fire. "Sit."

Warily, Tarn sat. Sansa stood before the roaring fire, her hands folded at her waist.

"A divided North cannot stand. I'll brook no further dissent from what remains of the Karstark family. If I ever hear a whisper that suggests you might have referred to the King of the North as a bastard or my sworn shield as the Lannister Hound, I will see to it that you are turned out in the snow, and you'll be as bare as the day you were born. If I find that Karstark tongues have caused further dissent, I will remove them, and take the heads as well." Tarn's mouth was a snarl, but he held his peace.

"I have already sent ravens informing Lady Thenn of your conduct and demanding that you be removed from her service. You will leave Winterfell tonight. Get yourself gone within the hour, or you'll go on foot."

Tarn spat, "Who do you think you are?"

Sansa glared down at him. "I'm the Lady of Winterfell. Get out of my keep."


	5. Chapter 5

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Rulers and Leaders

When Sansa stepped out of Karstark's room, her shield was waiting for her, looking murderous. "That was unwise, my Lady."

"Threatening to kill Karstark?"

Clegane snorted. "Doing it alone. He should have been dead two hours ago."

He offered Sansa a mailed elbow and she took it with a small smile. "Jon says he doesn't recognize me anymore."

Clegane lifted a brow wryly. "You're not the same little bird that they locked up in the Red Keep, to be sure." They walked on in silence, their footsteps echoing back to them. Quietly, he continued, "But I like you better for it."

"Thank you, Sandor." Sansa was oddly touched. She glanced up at her shield, and he bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

He stopped before her door and opened it. As she stepped into her room, he murmured, "You'd have made a fine Queen, my Lady. Just not for him." Sansa's head snapped up and she met Clegane's eyes for a long moment. "Good night, my Lady."

Sansa stood looking at the door for some time before she started undressing for bed. Not for the first time, she wondered how different her life might have turned out if only she'd been brave enough to flee the Red Keep during the Battle of Blackwater.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sansa woke to muffled shouts. Something slammed heavily against her door, and she quickly pulled on a dressing gown.

"Clegane?"

A loud groan answered from the other side of the door and something slid down the outside. Sansa ripped open the door, and a groaning Karstark rolled into the room at her feet. Clegane spared her a glance, and the two Karstarks before him charged.

Clegane met the blade of the first, but the second, who Sansa now recognized as Tarn, made a wild slash at Clegane. Her shield pushed the other Karstark away and jumped back, but the tip of Tarn's blade sliced through the front of his leg just below his hauberk. The first Karstark drew his hand back preparing for a cross-body slash at Clegane, but Clegane stepped into the man's advance and buried his blade in his belly. Clegane dropped him and advanced on Tarn. Realizing that he must now face his opponent alone, Tarn threw down his sword at Clegane's feet and held his hands up in a frantic attempt at surrender.

With a snarl, Clegane kicked Tarn's blade aside and advanced on the treacherous Karstark, intending to finish him, but Sansa intervened.

"Don't kill him!"

Clegane grabbed Tarn by the collar and slammed him into the wall. Tarn's eyes bulged and he gurgled, unable to breathe. He struggled and tried to break away, but Clegane slammed him into the wall twice more until he went limp. He looked at Sansa, one brow lifted in inquiry.

She narrowed her eyes at the unconscious Karstark. "I'm going to make an example of him." Remembering the third man groaning on the ground at her feet, she glanced down to see him curled around the slowly spurting stump of his arm. His hand twitched a few feet away. Knowing he'd lost too much blood to be of much threat, she ignored him and continued, "Find someone to clean this mess up and come see me when they've come."

Clegane nodded. "Bolt your door, my Lady."

In the few minutes it took for Clegane to bring help, Sansa lit several candles and set them on her table. She was arranging a pair of chairs when Clegane's knock came.

Sansa opened the door to find the Karstarks were being drug away and two night maids were busy scrubbing their blood off the floor and walls.

"Thank you, Clegane. I'm in your debt once again." She nodded to the blood steadily soaking its way through his breeks. "You've been injured."

"It's nothing, my Lady. Maester Walstrom can see to it later."

Sansa shook her head. "Don't bother. He'll be busy trying to save the fool Karstark, and you shouldn't have to wait. Come in and I'll tend to it myself."

Sansa flipped open the lid to her sewing case, musing that her septa would have been horrified had she seen how dusty it was. She'd been raised to think that a well-bred lady's time should be filled with embroidery, dancing, and arranging fine dinners. At least all those years of needlework were paying off.

She returned to Clegane and handed him one of her smallest sewing needles. The needle looked miniscule clutched between his enormous, blunt fingers.

"Bend that for me, would you?"

Clegane obliged and handed it back to her. While she threaded it with a length of white silk thread, he asked, "Where did you learn to stitch a wound, my Lady?"

Sansa drew her chair closer and probed the wound through the tear in his breeks. The slash was just a couple of inches above his knee and nearly five inches long, but not terribly deep. She cut through the coarse wool of the breeks to make the opening larger before sponging away the blood so she could see the wound more clearly. At least it was a clean cut.

Sansa grimaced and pushed the needle into his skin. She glanced up as she pulled the needle through, but Clegane didn't even flinch. He watched her expectantly, waiting for an answer to his question.

Sansa bent lower over the wound so she wouldn't have to meet his eye. "At Winterfell."

"Catelyn Stark doesn't seem the type to have her girls practicing their embroidery on human flesh."

Sansa grimaced and sighed irritably. "Ramsay didn't usually remember to send the Maester when he was done with me." She tightened her lips against the memory. "I learned."

Clegane took Sansa's chin in his hand and forced her face up to look at him. "What did Bolton do to you that required stitches, little bird?"

Sansa clenched her jaw when a traitorous tear slipped down her face. "Lots of things."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Where's Clegane this morning? I had hoped to assign him to training with House Manderly and Seaworth today."

Sansa looked up as Jon sat down. The hall had filled earlier than usual this morning, as each house had woken to new orders to report for barracks construction or training.

Distractedly, Sansa answered, "I'm expecting him any minute." She focused on Jon. "I'm sure he would enjoy training the men. Arya says that she learned much from him while they travelled together."

Clegane burst through the doors of the great hall, pushing a naked Tarn Karstark before him. Serving maids and bannermen scuttled out of the way as Tarn marched humiliated through the hall, making an effort to cover himself. Gasps of shock sounded around her, and Sansa stood solemnly from her place. Behind him, a very pale Karstark carried the stump of his arm in a sling, and the body of the third was brought in on a stretcher.

Bewildered, Jon gaped at Sansa. "What's the meaning of this?"

Sansa murmured, "The Lady of Winterfell is dispensing justice."

When the procession reached the front of the hall, Sansa explained, "Before retiring last night, I spoke with Tarn Karstark and expressed my displeasure with his discourtesy to House Stark. His conduct towards his host and liege was unbecoming a guest. I told him that should it continue, I would have him stripped and turned out into the snow. He was instructed to leave Winterfell within the hour." Sansa narrowed her eyes at Tarn. "He did not do as instructed."

Tarn spat on the floor. "You lousy fucking—"

Clegane backhanded Tarn and he collapsed onto the floor. Blood spurted from between his fingers. Tarn moaned in pain, "'e broke my fucking nose!"

Sansa continued dispassionately, "In the middle of the night, these three men drew blades and attempted to enter my chambers. They were accosted by my sworn shield. One has already lost his life, and another has lost a hand. I bring these men before the King of the North to appeal for justice. What is the punishment in the North for attacking a member of the king's family?"

Jon wiped his mouth and stood slowly, glaring venomously at Sansa. "These are grave charges. Had murder been done, I'd have no choice but to deprive them of their lives." Jon looked nervously out at the assembled bannermen, every eye locked on him, awaiting his judgment. "Tarn Karstark's men will never again be able to lift a sword against House Stark, so I will consider their punishment satisfied." The surviving Karstark accomplice wept silently. "As for Tarn Karstark, an attack upon the Lady of Winterfell is an attack upon the North itself. We will let the North mete out your punishment." Jon nodded to Clegane. "Put him into the snow."

Jon's eyes glittered dangerously when he turned to Sansa and hissed, "A word in private. Now!"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Have you lost your mind? You had a man stripped and marched through our father's hall during breakfast!"

Before she could open her mouth, a voice behind her growled, "If you'd dealt with fucking Karstark last night, she wouldn't have had to do it this morning." Sansa turned to see Clegane closing the door behind him, incandescent with rage. "I've served in the court of three kings, and you're the only one that I ever saw allow a bannerman ridicule him in court and keep his head!"

Hotly, Jon fired back, "It's not your place—"

"Maybe not, but if you can't hold order in your own fucking court, no one's going to believe you can manage an army or destroy the walking dead." He pointed in the direction of the hall. "You should be thanking Lady Sansa! Last night you looked weak, letting some nameless cunt talk to the King of the North like a stable boy. If your people see they can walk on you, your authority will amount to shit!"

"That's enough!" Jon's chest was heaving. "Wait outside."

Clegane gave Jon a last filthy glance before looking at Sansa for confirmation of the order.

"I believe the king would like you to assist in training exercises today. Perhaps you could report to the garrison commander for further orders."

"Yes, my Lady."

As he turned to leave, Sansa caught at his sleeve and murmured, "Clegane, how are your injuries this morning?"

He glanced uneasily at Jon. "Fine, my Lady."

Sansa nodded. "I'll ask the maester to send some salve." Sansa squeezed his arm before releasing him. "Thank you, Clegane."

Jon waited for Clegane to close the door behind him before speaking again. "You're not the queen, Sansa."

Sansa looked sharply at her brother. "No, but someone needs to run your court. Clegane's right. You risk losing control over the other houses if you appear weak. This isn't the Night's Watch, with several hundred men. The North is several hundred thousand strong! It's not enough for them to love you, Jon. They must respect your commands and fear your judgment."

Jon looked equally furious and wounded. "You want me to rule like a Lannister?"

"No. I want you to rule rather than lead. It's time you learned the difference."


	6. Chapter 6

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Incentive

Several days passed, and there were no further challenges to Jon's authority. Seasoned soldiers from southern houses were trickling north, and Jon had begun to sort them according to ability, rather than banner. While this had been met at first with resistance, between Jon's charm and diplomacy and Clegane's relentless intransigence tempered by humor, the combined forces had started to take shape.

Sansa continued to watch from the battlements, and she felt a reassuring frisson every time John or Clegane came into view. It was obvious that they were both born soldiers, and she was surprised to see even Clegane smile and laugh periodically. Since he had been temporarily reassigned to a post in the barracks, Clegane only reported to her before the evening meals, exhausted but in improved spirits. Jon didn't appear for meals anymore, instead eating during meetings with the house commanders.

When Lyanna failed to appear for their afternoon ride through the camps, Sansa decided not to wait for her. As she trotted between the newly erected barracks, men nodded their acknowledgement from a variety of banners. She heard cheers rise from the center of camp, and she turned her horse's head in the direction of the sound.

Soldiers were gathered in a broad clearing where the snow had been trodden and packed until it was as hard as iron. Her breath tangled in her throat when she saw who sparred within the ring. Clegane towered over Jon, beating him back beneath superior reach and strength. Though he was younger and less experienced, Jon was creative and somewhat faster, though she was surprised at Clegane's agility considering his size. Both men fought with live blades, protected only by chain mail and their opponent's restraint.

"Close your mouth. You look like a codfish, my Lady."

Sansa snapped her mouth shut and looked down at Lyanna, who stood with arms folded resolutely beside Sansa's horse . "I thought I missed you."

Lyanna shrugged and turned her attention back to the ring of soldiers. "I come every day to lunch with my men, and today I stayed to train with them as well."

Sansa nodded, impressed. "What are they doing?"

Lyanna smirked. "Showing off, mostly. The houses have been shuffled together and divided according to ability. Without banners or blood to guide their allegiances, the men have instead formed attachments to their new commanders."

"Jon and Clegane?"

"Mmm hmm. They decided to divide the most experienced soldiers between them, and they've been training separately. When you watch the men, it's obvious which commander they trained under. The men called for a bout between the King of the North and Clegane, and they obliged, calling it a well-earned break. I think they are playing with one another, though. It's been going on for near on ten minutes, and there's been no blood drawn."

The combatants were tiring, and when Jon stepped beneath one of Clegane's crushing blows, his feet slipped out from under him and he went sprawling. Clegane pressed his advantage, but Jon scooped up a handful of sludge and whipped it into Clegane's face to give him time to escape. Cheers and boos went up from respective sides of the ring.

"They aren't playing very nice."

Lyanna snorted. "They're men. Do they know how?"

"How will they know who has won?"

Lyanna shrugged. "I don't think they are planning to fight to the death. No doubt when one of them yields."

Sansa smirked. "Let's see if we can make things a bit more interesting, shall we?"

Sansa urged her horse closer to the ring of soldiers, and those in the back moved to allow her to pass. Jon's blade was locked against Clegane's nearly to the hilt, and Clegane's teeth were bared, taunting Jon. Jon grinned and stepped into Clegane, allowing the larger man's superior height and weight to over balance him as Jon ducked neatly beneath his elbow. Clegane turned, grinning, and was about to say something to Jon when he caught sight of Sansa. Immediately, he plunged his sword into the snow and took a knee behind it, his sword hand draped elegantly over the crossguard of the sword, and his elbow on his knee. Jon had almost gathered himself to attack what appeared to be a weakened opponent before seeing his sister grinning down at him.

"For all my time in King's Landing, never did I see a finer match in the tilt yard. It seems like a missed opportunity for there to be no reward." Jon laughed, and Clegane lifted his eyes, dark and impenetrable. "But Lady Lyanna," a cheer went up from the Mormont men, "has suggested that neither of you are really trying." Jon and Clegane exchanged glances, and she thought her shield might even have grinned. "Perhaps you need incentive."

Jon thrust his sword into the snow before him, obviously pleased for the opportunity for a break. "What did you have in mind, Lady Stark?"

"I will dine with the winner and their men tonight in the great hall." A roar went up amongst the men.

"What else?" Clegane had risen.

Sansa lifted her brows. "What else do you want?"

Something shifted behind Clegane's eyes, and for a moment, she saw something . . . but it passed before she could name it. "The loser's men shouldn't be punished for his commander's failing." Whoops went round the ring, and Jon grinned. "If memory serves, the Lady Sansa has a fair voice. Perhaps the men would like to hear her sing?"

Again, cheers went up, and Sansa laughed. She held her hands up for silence. "It has been many years since I was asked to sing in my father's hall, but if it will serve to amuse, I'll gladly sing." Again, cheers rang out, and she held up a finger and yelled over the cacophony, "One song!"

From the men's ranks, a thin figure in boiled leather armor and mail came to stand by Clegane. "I for one would like to see the Lady of Winterfall with a blade in her hand." Arya squinted up at her sister, and a tense silence followed her proclamation, too near to the late Lord Baelish's insinuations. "I think the loser should have to give Lady Sansa lessons."

Jon laughed. "I'm not sure if that would be a prize or punishment."

Clegane glowered at Jon. "Let the winner decide."

Sansa laughed. "Very well. Dinner, a song, and lessons. This had better be a good fight!"

Jon and Clegane reclaimed their blades and stalked to opposite sides of the ring. Excitement thickened the silence as the soldiers braced themselves. The two warriors watched one another hawkishly. Jon brought his blade up and made a shift in his stance, but Clegane must have seen some weakness that no one else did, because he launched himself at Jon.

Lyanna must have been right. Jon and Clegane hadn't really been earnest in their spar. Now, though, Clegane fought as though his life depended upon it. Jon struggled to turn Clegane's blade as it bore down upon him, and though he was faster, he barely dodged Clegane's vastly longer reach. Jon's blade tore through the arm of Clegane's halberk, and though it came away smeared red, he pressed the attack on the king as though unscathed. Jon tried to close the distance between them to rob Clegane of the advantage of his longer reach. Unpredictably, Clegane threw his sword away, grabbed John by the hair, and pressed his knife to the king's throat.

All assembled sucked in a great breath, and as one, they seemed to realize the Lannister Hound had the Stark King at a deadly disadvantage. A single pair of hands came together in slow, sincere applause. From her saddle Lyanna Mormont called out, "I salute you. I hope all of our men fight with Clegane's ferocity when they meet the White Walkers."

Clegane dropped his knife in the snow and released Jon before taking a know before his newly sworn king.

From the ground near Sansa's stirrup, Arya commented, "And let's all of us hope we are on the right side of the Hound's wrath if Lady Sansa's honor is at stake." She glanced up at Sansa impishly before calling out, "Clegane! Who will have the pleasure of teaching Lady Sansa the blade?"

With a quelling glance at Jon, he answered, "I will. The King of the North has far more important things to do."

A smattering of applause and laughter that followed, and Arya snorted with derision. "Yeah, like practice his swordwork." She glanced up at Sansa and called, "See you at dinner, sister," before dissolving back into the milling soldiers.

In the clearing, Clegane reclaimed both of his blades. Jon approached, and though Sansa couldn't guess what had passed between them, it ended with the men clasping arms.

Lyanna called for her horse, and together, they watched the king and the shield approach. Lyanna lifted her delicate chin and sniffed. "It's amazing what a man will do for a the right incentive. I won't forget." Glancing at Clegane, she commented, "You chose your shield well, Lady Sansa. I believe that man would slay the Stranger himself if he stood between the two of you."


	7. Chapter 7

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

***Please note: The lyrics of Hands of Gold are quoted from A Song of Ice and Fire.

The Little Bird Sings

As she had ridden back to the keep with Jon and Clegane, they'd been hailed numerous times by the gathered men, congratulating Clegane on his victory, thanking the king for the entertainment, or praising Sansa for the contest. Their joy was intoxicating, infectious. She now realized why her mother had ridden out to visit their men, why she would personally carry them bread and cakes and distribute them from her own basket, why at high feasts she would allow herself to be handed from hand to hand, dancing with any man who was brave enough to ask the lord's wife for a turn. It made them happy. For a few minutes, a pretty woman gave them her smile, and they remembered happier times. Though their wives or lovers may far away, for the few minutes of kindness Catelyn gave them, it felt as though they were home. Sansa now saw that Jon's soldiers would fight harder for a chance at a woman's smile than they would when threatened with certain death. They would run faster towards hope than they would flee from fear.

It seemed like years since she'd laughed properly, another lifetime since there had been a reason for real rejoicing. With so much anguish behind her and so much fear yet to come, she had forgotten that life could contain anything else.

Sansa took particular care dressing for supper that night. She'd grown so much since leaving Winterfell for King's Landing that she now fit into her mother's clothes. It was bittersweet picking through the lovely gowns, knowing that Catelyn Stark was neither there to wear them nor to appreciate her grown daughter in them. Still, it was the closest thing she had to her mother's touch as she stepped into the role Catelyn had left behind. Sansa was finally able to see that being Lady of Winterfell meant more than ruling over the stones of the keep.

Most of Catelyn's gowns were practical Northern dresses, heavy wools in dark colors. However, towards the bottom of a trunk, beneath layers of dried flowers and herbs, Sansa found some in brighter colors that must have been worn when she was expected to present herself at court in King's Landing. She was pleased to find a heavy rose gown of watered silk. It was simple and cut much like Catelyn's other gowns, but with a deeper neck line and delicate embroidery around the collar. Long panels of soft, delicate lace fine as spider silk fell from the long cuffs of the sleeves in a darker shade of rose.

When Sansa opened her door, she was pleased to see her shield waiting for her. "Clegane, thank you for waiting for me. I've missed speaking with you since you've been assigned to the garrison."

"Of course, my Lady." Clegane held her gaze, and though he wore his normal dour, tolerant expression, it seemed as though there was more he'd like to have said.

Sansa smiled warmly and took his arm. "It was a pleasure to see you and Jon spar this afternoon. Your troops were wild for the entertainment."

Clegane lifted his brow. "I didn't realize you were so fond of blood sport, my Lady."

She grimaced. "I'm not, but I remember my brothers training in the courtyard fondly. When my father was Lord of Winterfell, the sound of swordplay was always accompanied by laughter, and there was rarely a time someone wasn't practicing. Even Arya used to sneak out of bed at night to practice archery in the courtyard with Jon's bow. I think he left it out for her on purpose. Watching you and Jon together reminded me of happier times." Sansa squeezed Clegane's arm. "It felt like home again for a few minutes."

Clegane laid his free hand on top of Sansa's and squeezed her fingers gently. "It will feel like home again someday, my Lady."

Sansa laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. "I hope so."

For the first time in days, both Jon and Arya were present at the high table when she entered, and Sansa was surprised that she was greeted with rousing applause. Clegane extended his hand, and Sansa placed her fingers in it and curtsied to the room at large. Space was made for her in the center of one of the long tables, and for the first time in her life, she sat amongst the men who bled and died to preserve her family.

Awkwardly, Clegane took up his position behind her. Sansa looked around. "What are you doing?"

He frowned down at her. "I'm your sworn shield, my Lady. My place is—"

"Certainly not." Sansa's eyes fell on the man to her right who reluctantly slid down the bench to make room for Clegane. "Tonight you will sit with me and your men at table."

With Sansa and Clegane finally seated, maids began serving out steaming platters of food and jugs of ale. It was awkward and quiet at first. The soldiers who had been so eager for their champion's prize seemed dumbstruck now that the Lady of Winterfell was at table with them. Sansa glanced across the hall at the Mormont men, who trained under John. As ever, Lyanna sat amongst them, and she spoke easily to each of them in turn.

Once again, Sansa silently thanked her mother for the courtly manners she had always demanded. She turned to the man at her left, asking him his name and about his home. After some coaxing, the young archer finally began to speak to her. By the end of the course, she knew the names of each of the men and where they had come from. Though Clegane said almost nothing, concentrating his attention on his plate, Sansa could tell by the tilt of his head that he heard and was filing away every word that was said.

From time to time, Sansa saw Lyanna stand and move further down the table. On the pretense of asking him to pass the ale, she queried, "Do you see Lady Mormont?"

Clegane's dark eyes flicked up and away. "Yes, my Lady."

"She has moved three times since the meal began. What is she doing?"

Clegane emptied his cup before answering, "That is her custom, my Lady. The kitchens send Lyanna her meals an hour before the rest of her men eat. When they are at table, she sits with them in groups of five or six and changes her seat often. That way, they all have the opportunity to have her ear, and she is well-informed. That's how she knows all of them by name." He nodded in her direction. "They love her because they know her."

Sansa nodded. "My mother used to ride every morning after breakfast, and she insisted on taking a different man from the garrison to be her guard every day. I was always amazed that Father seemed so well informed about what was happening amongst his men, even if he had been away from the keep for weeks at court." Realization dawned and she met Clegane's eyes. "He must have known because Mother found out the most important things happening in the garrison during her morning rides."

Clegane looked away and shredded a steaming piece of bread between his fingers. "Lady Catelyn was a fine woman. Though Ned Stark was constantly ridiculed behind closed doors for his steadfast honor and fidelity, their marriage was unique at court." He snorted in derision. "If you toss a stone in any town between Storm's End and King's Landing, you're likely to strike a Baratheon bastard, but that wasn't Ned Stark's way."

"You don't miss much, do you?"

Clegane lifted a brow. "A sworn shield's job is to see everything, repeat nothing, and bleed for their betters."

Sansa grimaced. "I'd not thought of it that way. I hope you know that I think more of you than that." Sansa laid her hand on his shoulder to balance as she stood. "Come. Let's follow Lyanna's good example and move on before the next course is served. I've learned much today about what is involved in being the Lady of Winterfell, and it appears there's than issuing commands and ordering supper."

Through the last two courses, Sansa and Clegane changed their seats several more times, carrying their ale cups with them. Sansa had no idea how many cups she had drunk before Clegane started handing her cups that were more water than ale. He said little more for the rest of the evening besides, "Yes, my Lady," "No, my Lady,", but whenever she met his eyes, he was watching her intently. By the time the hall had begun to chant, "Song! Song! Song! Song!", Sansa's head had started to float just slightly above her shoulders.

They had made their way around to the last table, and when she stood to acknowledge the hall, a roar of applause rose to the rafters.

A young paige from the Riverlands had attached himself to Sansa somewhere along the night and had sat between Sansa and Clegane for much of the last course, oblivious to the annoyance of the hulking warrior that towered over him. He gazed up at her in adulation.

"What shall you sing, my Lady?"

Sansa smiled down at him and tousled his sun-bleached hair. "That's up to Clegane, Sorge." She beamed at her shield, "Champion's choice." Sansa laid her hand on Clegane's shoulder and asked quietly, "What shall your little bird sing for you?"

Something changed behind Clegane's eyes, and for a moment, the great hall was very far away, its noise a distant rumble. He took a shallow shuddering breath but did not answer her. Sansa stepped closer so that her hip pressed against his shoulder.

"I sang for you once, long ago, do you remember?" Clegane blinked once and nodded convulsively. "You were very drunk but you covered me in your cloak, and I have it still. You asked for Florian and Jonquil, but neither of us believe in true nights." Sansa took a deep breath and looked around the hall. "My handmaid, Shae, used to sometimes sing Hands of Gold. Do you know it?" Again, Clegane nodded wordlessly. Sansa smiled. "That one will be my gift to you, then."

Sansa lifted her voice so that all assembled could hear her. "How about Hands of Gold?"

A cheer went up, and scores of hands lifted their ale tankards. When she glanced at the high table, Arya and Jon wore matching slack-jawed expressions of deepest astonishment, no doubt shocked that their courtly sister would know such a song. All around her, men exchanged knowing glances, but Sansa didn't pause to imagine what they might mean. She reached out for her ale cup, and finding it empty, took up Clegane's instead. She took a deep draught and began to sing sweetly.

"He rode through the streets of the city,

Down from his hill on high,

O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,

He rode to a woman's sigh.

For she was his secret treasure,

She was his shame and his bliss.

And a chain and a keep are nothing,

Compared to a woman's kiss."***

Sansa raised her hand and the assembly joined in the chorus. The soldiers around her pounded their ale tankards, sloshing their drink across the long oaken tables in time to the tune and bellowed out,

"For hands of gold are always cold,

But a woman's hands are warm!

For hands of gold are always cold,

But a woman's hands are warm!"***

After the refrain, the assembly carried on with three more verses that she'd never heard before. Sansa plopped down on the bench beside Clegane and clapped merrily as the soldiers sang. When it was at an end, a mist of contentment and well-being had settled over the hall. Ale cups were drained, benches scraped, and the hall emptied. The halls of Winterfell resounded with male voices stumbling and singing their way off to bed.

Sansa caught Lyanna's eye as she filtered out of the hall, escorted by the Mormont men. Lyanna lifted her chin in acknowledgment and gave Sansa an amused if bewildered look.

"My Lady?" Clegane had risen and held his hand out to her expectantly. "Are you ready to retire?"

"Quite." Sansa smiled and placed her fingers into his, and he lifted her from her seat.

As she floated out of the hall, Sansa glanced up again at the high table, meaning to bid her brother and sister good night. Jon leaned on the table, halfway between sitting and standing, apparently anchored by one of Arya's hands on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place. She could see his lips moving, but whatever he said must have been very funny. Arya had crammed one of her fingers between her teeth in an effort to quell her laughter, and her eyes glittered with tears of mirth.

"What's wrong with Jon?"

"I imagine he's trying to figure out if he has any means to have me killed before morning."

Sansa glanced up at Clegane to see if he was joking and noticed the stiff, scarred corner of his mouth twitching. "Whatever for?"

Clegane glanced down at her with obvious amusement. "Ask me again in the morning, if you remember."

Sansa sighed in contentment. She wrapped both arms around her shield's arm and laid her head against his shoulder. "Did you like your song, Clegane?"

"Very much, little bird."

Suddenly remembering, Sansa asked, "Which did you fight Jon so hard for? The dinner, the song, or the blade?"

"I'd have beaten him into the snow for the pleasure of any one of them."


	8. Chapter 8

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Cloaks and Consequences

Sansa woke earlier than usual the next morning, but with a slight headache. She quickly dressed in one of her mother's practical wool gowns and braided her hair, hoping that she might be early enough to see her shield before he reported to the garrison. When she opened her door, Clegane was there, yawning.

"Have you been here all night?"

He blinked in surprise. "Of course, my Lady."

"You'll be dead on your feet by midday."

Clegane lifted a brow. "You forgot to bolt your door last night, my Lady."

"Can you absent yourself from your duties at the garrison this morning?"

He gave her a quizzical look, and the corner of his lips twitched. "No, my Lady."

When Clegane escorted Sansa into the hall, many men were brave enough to nod a good morning, though only her shield noticed the speculative glances and amused smiles that were shared in their wake. He sighed irritably, but when Sansa asked him what troubled him, he dismissed it.

Jon and Arya's heads were bent together speaking over their plates, one the echo of the other. Sansa wasn't sure why she'd never noticed the resemblance before. The same thick, dark hair, same dark eyes, same brooding intensity, and same mannerisms were sketched on both frames. As usual, Arya was dressed for soldiering. Sansa now realized that it must have been Jon himself who had ordered Arya's clothes made, as they were nearly identical to his except for the leather armor that was cut to fit her developing curves. Arya caught Sansa's eye first, and she grinned.

At a word from Arya, Jon glowered down at her. _No, he didn't_. She looked again and realized his gaze was aimed several inches higher and directed at her sworn shield.

Clegane sighed heavily. "My Lady, would you mind if I left you here? I believe the king would like me to report to the garrison immediately."

"Why? Is he angry with you?"

"Yes, I believe he is, my Lady." Clegane looked wryly unrepentant. His lips twitched in barely repressed amusement.

"Why?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as they approached the steps up to the high table. Reluctantly, he answered, "I don't know for certain, but I think he believes I took certain . . . liberties at supper last night."

"Certainly not. I'll speak with him. The only liberties taken at all yesterday were taken by me."

Clegane opened his mouth to respond, but something passed across his face, and Sansa realized that he could neither agree nor disagree with her courteously. Instead he answered, "As you will, my Lady."

He turned to go, but Sansa caught his sleeve. "Do break your fast before leaving the keep. It's early yet."

The usual bite of his tone softened. "Yes, my Lady."

When she sat down beside Jon, he glanced at her and was clearly bursting to say something. Sansa nodded her good morning to an eager Arya before she commented, "My shield is under the impression that you are unhappy with him this morning." 

John chewed slowly and swallowed before turning his head deliberately to look at her. Around his shoulder Arya was grinning broadly and practically unable to keep her seat. "Should I not be? He was most . . . familiar in his conduct last night."

Sansa glared at Jon. "In what way? He beat you roundly yesterday in a beautiful display of arms. I promised to sit with the victor and his men. I asked him to sit with me at table."

"So we saw."

"Arya, you know Clegane as well as I, if not better. Tell Jon that his sense of honor would not permit improprieties, especially in so public a way."

This only seemed to amuse Arya, and her smile broadened further. Sansa glared at her sister. _Her face is likely to split. What in seven hells is so funny?_ She'd been counting upon Arya to help mollify Jon.

Glancing at Jon, Arya opened her mouth to respond, but he interrupted. "How much had you had to drink? You sang Hands of Gold to him." Jon's mouth knotted in an apparent attempt to stop his words. "With our forces assembled." He clamped his jaw, but was again unable to restrain himself. "In our father's hall! I was shocked he would ask for such a thing, or that you would give it!"

Sansa's face went blank with surprise. "He didn't ask for that song." Jon relaxed subtly and took up his cup. Sansa continued, "I chose it," and he nearly choked in his ale. She huffed in annoyance and gestured at the hall helplessly. "The men sang with me. They seemed to like it."

Jon mopped his face and glared at her. "They certainly did." On his other side, Arya had again crammed her first knuckle into her mouth to stifle a laugh. "The Lady of Winterfell singing a ballad about a broken knight fighting for his noble lady love _to the Hound_ was a sight they'll not soon forget."

Sansa was flustered. "I didn't sing it to _him_ , exactly—"

"It certainly looked like you did." Arya lifted her cup in mock salute. "You didn't look away from him the entire time you were singing, and once you sat, he couldn't look at anything but you."

"Just how well did you know the Hound in the Red Keep?"

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her brother. Rather than answer his question, she answered, "I turned the last man that referred to Clegane as the Hound out in the snow. I'm a woman grown and I don't have to answer to my brother."

Sansa claimed a loaf of bread the size of her fists and a wedge of hard cheese before standing. She glared down at Jon. "There was no impropriety whatsoever on Clegane's part, and I'll thank you not to insinuate further. What I did was done to lift the spirits of your men." She lowered herself and hissed, "You are preparing them to fight in a long, cold, dark winter against an overwhelming force. Let them have what joy they can before they march out to give their lives for us." Jon's mouth gaped and Sansa straightened. "I've spent countless hours in Clegane's company and have ever been the better for it. He doesn't deserve your ire, nor I your suspicion."

As she descended the steps from the high table, Arya's voice followed her, "She's changed; I like it. I had no idea meals would be so entertaining now. I'll be sure to arrive on time more often!"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sansa took her breakfast to the battlements and watched over the wall. Though the barracks buzzed like a hive with the comings and goings of soldiers, none but Clegane had reported yet for training. She could just see him sitting alone on a stone near the clearing, breaking his fast.

The wind was biting through her cloak, and she wished that she had something heavier. She'd not forgotten her promise to present herself for blade training, and realized she was looking forward to it. As she ate, contemplating, she realized she did have a much heavier cloak, but it would need to be altered before she could wear it. Sansa hastily finished her meal and brushed the crumbs off the top of the wall. She'd have to hurry if she was going to be ready in time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sansa had handed off her reins to the garrison stable lad, and was delighted to see Sorge again, running an errand for some knight or other. He gave her an enthusiastic wave as she passed.

Sansa was very early for the midday meal and hoped to find Lyanna. She pulled up the hood of her cloak to guard against the wind, and though she was greeted by numerous smiles and nods, no one stopped to speak with her further.

"My Lady?"

Sansa turned to find her shield, dumbfounded and laden with various pieces of steel plate.

She smiled up at him. "Clegane. I came early to report for my blade lessons."

He walked a circle around her, a grimace of consternation painted on his face. Her stomach fluttered nervously. "I hope you don't mind. I had it altered to fit and replaced the Kingsguard sigil with a Stark direwolf. It's much warmer than my cloak, and I thought perhaps you'd not want it back."

"You, boy. Come here." Clegane glared at a tall squire passing, and he came immediately. "Take these back to Gewellan and see if any of them will do. Tell him he'd better not grow any more before he heads to the Wall, or I'll take a few inches off the top."

"Right away." Though Clegane's orders had been gruff, the squire seemed to realize there was no malice in them. He smiled at the commander's jest, and smiled a bit wider when his eyes traveled from Clegane to herself. He nodded in her direction with a proper, "My Lady," before turning to go.

Relieved of his burden, Sansa realized that he had removed his mail and was wearing one of the black tunics she'd had made and sent to him when he entered her service. She'd asked the sempstresses to emblazon the breast with the Clegane sigil surmounted by the Starks'. Though she could see where the fabric had been pricked in the stitching of the Clegane sigil, it had been carefully, meticulously cut away, and only the Stark direwolf remained.

Clegane's eyes were soft when they fell on her again. "No, my Lady. Covering you with my cloak was the last thing that I did before leaving King's Landing, and I'd not take it back for anything on this earth." Clegane placed his enormous hands on her shoulders and turned her gently so that he could see the Stark sigil on the back. "I like it much better in Stark colors. I hope that it will keep you in better stead than the first two times I wrapped it around you."

Sansa turned to face him. "I feel certain it will. Before, it had the wrong sigil, and your allegiance was not yours to give. I have always felt safer with it around my shoulders." Tentatively, Sansa stroked her fingertips over the missing Clegane sigil on his breast. Clegane took a quick breath but did not stop her. "I had them add your family's mark to honor you. Why did you cut it away?"

"A man can truly owe his allegiance to only one house, and I have chosen which one I will serve. Besides, how could a hound ever withstand a direwolf? There can be no contest, surely?"

Sansa smiled broadly and withdrew her touch. "The Hound bested the wolf easily yesterday. You give yourself too little credit."

Clegane grunted dismissively, but she could tell he was pleased. He offered her his elbow and led her towards the clearing they had been using for a training yard. "I'd thought you might dismiss Lady Arya's suggestion that you train the blade. You could have felled me with a summer breeze when I saw you here alone, my Lady."

Sansa grinned. "Stark honor would not permit me to fail to appear to be trained when you had so gallantly won the honor."

"I'm your sworn shield. I could hardly allow someone else to approach you with their blade." Agitated, he looked around them at the many soldiers gawking at them as they passed. "Have you time to wait? I'd returned to the armorer just to seek out plate for Gewellan, and have men awaiting my return."

"Of course. Perhaps I'll watch a bit or go find Lyanna if she's here."

Clegane glanced down at her. "Stay and watch. I've not seen Lady Lyanna yet today, but she will arrive within the hour to see to the disposition of her men. She's shrewd and will know where to find you when she arrives."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Is that a Kingsguard cloak?"

As usual, Lyanna had skipped the pleasantries when she found Sansa seated on the same stone she'd seen Clegane rest upon from the battlements.

"Not anymore."

Mormont's eyes travelled shrewdly to Clegane, who'd neglected to put back on his mail before returning to his men. "Clegane's?"

Self-consciously, Sansa pulled it closer around her shoulders. "Yes."

Lyanna lifted her chin. "He fights well, and he leads well for all his dourness. I wonder if you'd consider releasing him to my service when you marry."

Sansa snapped her head around and looked sharply at Lyanna. "I've no intention of releasing him to anyone, and why would you think that I should marry any time soon?"

"You've not heard, Lady?" Sansa shook her head. "Three houses at least have petitioned your brother this morning for your hand, and I suspect more will soon."

Sansa's mouth tightened in sudden anger . . . and fear. "Which ones?"

Lyanna gave her a sad smile. "Not the one you'd hope for, I fear. He lacks both banner and blood to recommend him."


	9. Chapter 9

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Training

Sansa had at first been distracted when Clegane finally found the time to work with her. Her mind worried at Lyanna's news like a sore tooth. Arya turned up for the entertainment, and had offered Needle up for Sansa to train with.

Clegane rolled his eyes. "Off with you girl. I've told you a thousand times that damned thing won't even pierce chain mail. Take your new blade," Clegane indicated the much longer, heavier sword he'd recently had made for her with a jerk of his chin, "and get to practicing. Somewhere else."

Arya narrowed her eyes and replied mockingly, "That's no way to talk to a lady."

He bent low into Arya's face, nearly nose to nose. "Aye? And when you start behaving like one, I'll accord you the honor. In the meantime, you're under my command." Clegane slapped Arya solidly across the buttocks with the flat of his blade hard enough to sting. "Get you gone. I expect to see that you've learned to manage a back-hand parry with the new blade when I see you again."

Arya gave Clegane a sour glare before stalking off, but she did indeed go.

"Why is she training with you instead of Jon?"

Clegane shrugged. "I don't understand it myself. After the weeks of bitching and biting between us on the road, you'd think she'd have had enough. I've tried reassigning her to his ranks, but she still shows up every morning with my men instead." Turning his attention back to Sansa, he continued, "I'd no intention of giving you a sword anyway. You'd never be able to carry one with any dignity as the lady of a great house, so any training would do you no good at all." He drew a dirk from his belt. "This, though, you could conceal in your sleeve, especially in the North, and no one would be the wiser until you stuck them with it."

Clegane held the blade and offered the hilt to her, and Sansa took it gingerly. Though it had appeared small in his massive grip, now that she held it in her own hands, Sansa realized that from point to pommel, it was slightly shorter than her forearm.

"First off, using a knife isn't like using a sword. It will go places a sword won't, and since you're likely to find yourself in situations where you need to defend yourself at close quarters, it's a perfect weapon for a lady."

Clegane drew another knife, its grip fashioned from the antler of a stag, and lightly traced an X across her cloak with it. "Cross-body strikes hurt and will give a man pause, but if he's determined, it will only enrage him and he'll make you suffer when he gets his hands on you." He opened the clasp of her cloak and laid it aside. He traced the tip of the knife down her ribs. "You can try going in through the ribs, but you're more likely to get it stuck in bone, and that will hurt you more than it hurts him, so no good there." He placed the tip of the blade over her heart. When their eyes met, she couldn't breathe for a moment. "It's the same for your heart. The breast bone is a fair shield for what lies beneath. It's better to slash at the belly," Clegane drug his blade across her stomach as he walked around her, and with a sharp jab with his finger into her lower back, he continued, "and the kidneys are a safe target as well." He stepped closer behind her and brought one arm around her body, gripping her shoulder firmly. "You can slide a blade in here," he placed the blade atop the fleshy muscle behind her clavicle, "but it's a difficult strike. You're always safest to try for the throat," Clegane laid his luxuriously warm hand over her throat and stroked a thumb over the delicate skin there. Sansa looked up at him, leaning her head back against his chest. Clegane's breath hitched, and he lowered his face to see her more clearly. He finished quietly, "and in close range, the eyes are also a perfect target." He laid his hand against her cheek and stroked it with a thumb. "If I can't see you, I'm lost. I'd have little chance of landing my strike. If you're desperate, you just hold on tight to your weapon and slash at anything in your way until you're free."

Just as in the hall, when she'd sung to him, the world seemed to shrink just to the earth that supported their feet. His warmth had chased away her chill, and his voice had chased away the fears Lyanna had brought with her.

"Show me."

What followed were four grueling hours during which Clegane slashed at her with a flat, oval stone that simulated a knife in his hand. He insisted that she use his live blade, saying that if he was too slow to stop a noble lady from cutting him, he probably deserved the cut. He'd shown her how to deflect a man's blow and how to move to make it harder to catch her. He'd even made her practice over and over how to escape different types of holds. By the time they were done, she was muddy and sweaty and likely bruised in a dozen places, but she was glad Arya had suggested the training.

As the afternoon light began to fail, Sansa wiped her steaming face on her sleeve. "Enough. Let me try for real. If I could get away from you, I could get away from anyone."

Skeptically, Clegane tossed aside his stone. "You'll need to practice more before we try that. Why don't you try attacking me? I'll show you what will happen if you lose your knife."

"Are you sure? What if I cut you?"

He snorted. "Trust me, you won't. Attack me with everything you've got." When she hesitated, he demanded, "Come on!"

Sansa launched herself at Clegane. No matter what she did, his hands were faster, blocking her strike. Within moments, he was able to grab her wrist, circle her arm around, and slap the flat of the blade against his thigh so that it popped harmlessly out of her hand. Forgetting that it was a game, a training exercise, she squirmed against him and planted an elbow into his belly with all her strength. He grunted softly, but didn't let go, ending up with her pressed hard against his body, both wrists trapped in one of his enormous hands, and the other hand locked around her waist. The scarred side of his face was pressed against her own, and she realized that no matter what she did, he'd neatly overpowered her and she was his.

They panted against one another, flushed with exertion and slick with sweat, and Sansa pressed her eyes shut, frustrated at how easily she had lost.

Into her ear, he murmured, "That was well done, little bird. Had I been a different man, I'd have had trouble getting a hold on you. Truly, there is a wolf inside, if you will but let it out."

Clegane loosened his grip on her slightly, and she slid away so that their eyes met, still close enough to share a breath.

"It needs work."

Startled, Sansa and Clegane looked up as one and realized that an audience had gathered. It was Arya's wry voice that had interrupted the lesson, but beside her stood Lyanna Mormont, arms crossed with assessment, a number of Clegane's men, and the King of the North himself. Jon stood stiffly, his hands fisted at his sides, and his eyes burned.

Clegane released Sansa and handed her back her cloak. Hidden in its folds, she clasped his fingers tightly before accepting it from him. "Thank you, Clegane. I enjoyed the lesson more than I'd have thought possible. Can you find the time to practice again tomorrow?"

Clegane bowed formally. "Any time, my Lady."

When Sansa turned, Sorge had arrived, leading her horse and Jon's. Apparently, it was time to go.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The ride back to the keep had been silent and charged, and Jon had led her directly to their father's office. He turned his usual chair before the fire to face her and sat down stiffly. Sansa had perched against the table where he had maps spread out beneath a window, and cold northern light streamed through onto the charts. As they had ridden, her damp clothes had chilled, and she pulled Clegane's cloak tightly about her shoulders. When she lowered her face and brought the cloth to her nose, she could smell him in its folds. Had his scent always lingered there, and she never noticed?

Abruptly, Jon burst out, "You're to marry."

Sansa jerked her head up in outrage. "Absolutely not. We are on the cusp of war. Why should anyone be suddenly so keen to marry me now?"

Jon shook his head. "It's necessary. The houses of the North are coming together against the threat of the White Walkers, but we need more than the North. We will have to negotiate relationships with houses in the south in order to field a big enough army to repel an invasion should it come."

"No."

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Your beauty has never gone unnoticed, Sansa, nor your title. In the past week you have shown yourself to be both strong and desirable, and the lords of the realm have realized that you would be an exceptional asset for their house." His eyes bored into her. "None have missed how you and Clegane are together, and it can't continue. I think that after last night, many are hoping to beat him to the asking, trusting their better bloodlines to win out."

Sansa felt his words like a physical blow. "He has never been anything but honorable! He would never . . . he has never suggested . . ." Sansa pressed her eyes shut and the heat between them when she was pressed to Clegane returned in a rush. Feebly, she blurted, "I feel safe with him."

"I know, Sansa, I really do." Jon's eyes were sympathetic now. "For all his faults, Clegane has shown himself to be of impeccable honor and unwavering loyalty. No one sympathizes more than I do with being an unsuitable match for a noble woman."

Jon sighed and leaned back in his chair, propping his temple upon his fingertips. "It's not just Clegane. I will be leaving for the wall soon, and if I do not return, you will be left at the mercy of all of Westeros scheming to claim your hand and the title of Warden of the North, if not King of the North. This is for your protection."

Sansa set her jaw and looked away. "You know nothing, Jon Snow. What would you know of what passes between me and my shield? You, with your oaths and your honor atop the wall. You see his face and his past and his banner and his blood, and think that you know."

Jon didn't respond, and when she glanced at him, Sansa saw that something she had said had wounded him deeply. She hung her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what made me say that. It was unworthy. You know you are my brother in my heart, not a bastard."

Quietly, he murmured, "I do know. I went to the wall to remove myself from Winterfell. I knew an honorable woman would never want me. I knew Catelyn Stark did not want me. I knew the Wall was the only place I could prove myself worthy of being a Stark. When I was with the Wildlings, there was someone," Jon took a shuddering breath, and he stared into the fire, "and I broke every oath for her. If she was here now, I'd still break every oath for her if it would keep her at my side."

"Where is she now?"

"She died in my arms after attacking Castle Black, believing that I had betrayed the Free Folk and her love."

Sansa watched the firelight play over Jon's face. "I will not take another man I do not want. Twice I've been forced to marry for my title. I'll never allow another man to settle his cloak on my shoulders if he cares more for my title and my face than he does for my heart."

Jon sighed disconsolately. "There is time, Sansa. Time enough to reconcile yourself, time enough for you to choose, but I will see this matter resolved before I march north."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sansa closed the door and was surprised to see Clegane waiting for her, his arms crossed over his chest. He must have come directly from the practice yard, as his Stark tunic was smeared with mud and redolent with sweat.

"My Lady, what is wrong?"

Sansa burst into tears, and Clegane gathered her firmly to him. Sansa wrapped her arms around his waist and wept the harder. His broad hands and long fingers caressed her hair, and she tried to pull herself back together before they were seen embracing outside the king's office. She sniffled into his chest and traced the fine stitches of the Stark sigil that bound him to her.

"Little bird, what has happened?"

"Jon insists that I marry before he marches north. He has had several offers for my hand, some from families he badly needs to secure alliances with."

Clegane's hand paused over the back of her neck for a moment before stroking consolingly down her back. "Do you not wish to marry?"

Sansa tightened her grip around his waist. "Not like this. Not to be sold off again to the highest bidder. I'm . . . afraid."

Gently, Clegane framed her face and turned it up to look at him. "There is nothing that will ever harm you again, little bird. I'm your sworn shield, and I will stand between you and anyone that tries to touch you. Do you understand?" Rage kindled in Clegane's deep eyes, and she nodded. "Anyone."

When he released her face, Sansa laid her head again on his chest and was comforted by the erratic thump of his heart and the warmth and strength of his arms around her.

"Do you want me to take you away from Winterfell?"

"I will be a Stark of Winterfell, no matter where I go. If only I could shed my title and my blood as easily as I can shed a cloak, but they follow me, always."

"Would he consider stripping you of your title and giving it to Lady Arya instead?"

Sansa snorted. "Do you think Arya would obey?"

Sullenly, he answered, "No." After several long moments, he asked, "When must you decide?"

"Before he leaves."

Clegane gave her a squeeze and then reluctantly released her. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs. "Let's think on it. Perhaps we can find a better solution."


	10. Chapter 10

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Unsuitable

In the coming days, Sansa continued to present herself for training with Clegane after the men had been released for the day. Her skills improved quickly under his firm instruction, but with the increased intimacy demanded by the training, the space between them had diminished to the thinnest possible veil. They learned the length and breadth of one another's bodies and the rhythm of one another's breaths, and she'd come to cherish his hard-won smiles as much as his touch. Every day, a crowd came to see the Lady of Winterfell taking instruction from Clegane, and Arya had taken to shouting suggestions from the perimeter of the training yard.

Within Winterfell, lords groveled and scraped and dogged her steps, hoping to encourage her to accept their suit. They circled warily when she was on Clegane's arm, and his glowers and snarls were the only things that kept them at bay. When he was expected to report to the garrison, her hours were increasingly spent wrapped in his cloak watching for him from the battlements. Fleeing from the unwanted advances of yet another noble, her feet would carry her there of their own volition.

The only time she found to speak with him alone was when he escorted her to and from dinner, and she'd begun to lead him through longer and longer circuitous routes to prolong the pleasure of his presence. They often found themselves in parts of the keep that Sansa had forgotten existed. More than once, they had arrived in the hall as the last plates were being cleared away and had to beg their meal in the kitchens.

One evening, when Sansa opened her door to proceed to the evening meal, Clegane was there as usual, washed and changed into a fresh Stark tunic, but he was seething. She saw it from the set of his shoulders and his stance before he even turned to greet her.

"Clegane?" Sansa laid her hand on his iron shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I am tired, my Lady."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That may be, but that's not what's bothering you."

Sansa laid her hand against his side and his lips tightened. Suspicious, Sansa tore his tunic from beneath his sword belt to reveal a broad bandage stained with blood.

"What is this?"

Clegane shifted his feet, embarrassed. "It is nothing, my Lady."

"This is most assuredly something! Has the maester had a look, or did you wrap it yourself?"

"I'm more than capable—"

"As I thought. Come in. I want a look—"

Clegane caught her hands and brought his face low. "Trust me. It's nothing, but I'm grateful that you should be concerned."

"Who did this and why?"

Glancing down the hall, Clegane tucked his tunic back down beneath his belt. He refused to look at her. "There was some idle talk about my Lady to which I took great offense."

"What kind of talk?"

Clegane looked down the corridor in the direction of the great hall. "It was unworthy, Lady."

Sansa gathered his refashioned Kingsguard cloak and closed her door. "Walk with me."

When Clegane offered her his elbow, she took his hand instead and led him in the opposite direction from the great hall. He followed hesitantly, looking over his shoulder to ensure they weren't seen. Sansa led Clegane to a wing of the keep that been reduced to rubble during the Battle of the Bastards.

"Does it bother you that the tongues of Winterfell are wagging about us?"

"No, but you should. Those that question your honor are getting louder and clearer with their insinuations. If you do not make your choice soon, it will get harder and harder to make a good match."

Sansa swung his cloak around her shoulders and sat on the remnants of a ruined wall. The moonlight silvered every surface, and the air crystallized with each breath. Sansa laid her hand on the wall next to her. "Come sit with me."

When Clegane had joined her, she took one of his hands in both of hers. She traced a healing cut across his hand, unable to meet his eye. "There is a particular house that I have been waiting, hoping, for a proposal from. If a troth from that house were offered, I would accept it immediately."

Clegane seemed to be holding his breath. "Which house is that, Lady?"

Sansa glanced at him. She traced the outline of where the sigil of House Clegane had been removed from his tunic. He drew a trembling breath.

"I think you know which house."

Clegane took her face in his hand and she pressed her cheek against his calloused fingers, closing her eyes as his warmth seeped into her skin. When Sansa dared look at him, he smiled sadly down at her. "There is no one from that house that could make you an adequate offer. They are two generations out of the kennels, and have neither the means nor the men to make a worthy offer to the King of the North for your hand. You are worth more than that."

Sansa nodded and looked away. "I thought that you would say that, but I had to try. If I must leave my home, I won't give up my only comfort. You will have to help me choose whose house we will go to."

Clegane's eyes went wide and filled with rage. "What?" He stood and started pacing across the ruins of the room, kicking aside bric-a-brac and chunks of stone as he went. She waited patiently while he fumed and muttered. Unable to bear it any longer, he bellowed, "You honestly expect me to help you decide who I have to listen fuck you from the other side of the gods damned door? You want me to choose who I'll get to watch you fall in love with while you forget about me? Are you fucking trying to kill me?"

"Then make an offer for me so that I can accept it."

"I can't, damn you! I have nothing to offer you! Clegane Keep is a dank little shit hole in Lannister Lands with almost no income. I'm not a noble lord, I'm not a knight, I'm just the twice damned grandson of a kennel master that saved some Lannister cunt from a fucking lion."

Sansa grabbed Clegane's arm as he passed and he glowered down at her. "I don't need lands, I need you!"

He knelt before Sansa and took her face in his hands. "Maybe not, little bird, but the King of the North needs alliances, troops, and money. All I have to offer him is a lifetime of soldiering and my blade. Even I wouldn't accept that offer for you."

"Then tell me who you can bear to see me go to, because I can't bear to go to anyone but you!"

Clegane held Sansa while she wept into his shoulder. "What have we all done to you, little bird?" He stroked a hand down her back. "It's a sad day when you have all of Westeros at your feet, and you decide you want the foulest, blackest bastard of the bunch, the one that can't have you." When Sansa's sobs finally ebbed, he wiped her face dry. What little was left of his broken soul shattered when he said it, but he conceded, "If that's truly what you want, little bird, I will help you choose. Come now. You're very late for supper."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sansa sat quietly beside her brother, unable to eat. Observing her melancholy, Jon leaned closer.

"Are you alright? People are staring." He glanced over his shoulder at Clegane, trembling and fuming behind Sansa's chair. "The two of you look like you've had a lover's quarrel."

Sansa looked up and made a poor attempt at hiking a courtly smile upon her lips. "Of course, everything is well, my Lord."

Jon's brows creased in a combination of concern and affront. Sansa looked back into her lap with shame, realizing she had slipped into her courtly behavior from the Red Keep. Abruptly, she stood and bolted from the table.

"Lady Sansa!" She walked as quickly as she dared back out of the hall, but behind her, she clearly heard Jon hiss at Clegane, "What is wrong with her?"

"What the hell do you think is wrong? Every prick in Westeros is trying to crawl into her bed for the sake of her title, and you're just going to stand there and let them. Fucking worthless cunt of a king."

Clegane's heavy footsteps followed her, but she couldn't bear to face him again. Once she had passed through the doors of the great hall, she flew through the corridors, seeking out the small dark places that he'd never think to look for her.

Inevitably, her steps carried her to the catacombs, and she wedged herself into a dark recess between her mother's and father's tombs. Between their twin cold comfort, she wept. She wept for them and for Robb and his young bride. She wept for sweet Rickon, and even for Bran, so changed and distant. She wept for Clegane, who had been so broken and misused, but most of all, she wept for herself, that she could not have him. She wept for the injustice that after everything she had been through, she was still worth no more than the number of troops or the bushels of wheat that could be bought with her body.

"When he stops storming through the keep out of his mind with rage, he will eventually realize where you have gone. What will you tell him when he arrives?"

Sansa lifted her face to see little Lyanna Mormont standing in the column of light between her parent's caskets. "What?"

"You won't be able to hide forever, you know. Your champion will always come to find you."

Sansa laid her head down on her knees. "I don't know. I thought that there could be no crueler fate than to be forced to marry someone that I did not love. It's ten times worse when a worthy man whose blood does not recommend him must stand on the outside of the door and be denied."

Lyanna looked down on Sansa not unkindly. "I have watched from the safety of Bear Island the indignities you have been forced to suffer. I have thought long about how I would prevent a similar fate for myself."

"What conclusions have you found, Lady?"

Lyanna sighed. "As far as I can see, the only way it could be done is if I were unsuitable for marriage."

"Unsuitable?"

Heavy footfall echoed through the catacombs that she recognized as her shield's.

Lyanna looked down on Sansa pityingly. "Unsuitable." As he approached, she turned to address him. "Clegane, I believe I have located something of great value to you."

He nodded his thanks as he passed, and then Clegane squeezed between the caskets to lift Sansa wordlessly from the floor. She pressed a kiss to his neck and clung to him, knowing that what had been seen would not be repeated by Lady Mormont's lips.

As Clegane bore Sansa away from the blind, disapproving gaze of her forbears, Lyanna called after them, "Think on it, Lady Sansa. What would make you unsuitable?"


	11. Chapter 11

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Bolton's Kiss

Clegane carried Sansa all the way back to her rooms, glaring at anyone who got in his way so fiercely that they scuttled away. He sat her on a chair by the fire and then bolted the door.

"Little Bird, this is killing both of us, and it can't go on." Clegane knelt before her. "Tell me what you want to do."

Sansa's stomach twisted and churned, but she was relieved that for the moment, at least, it was just the two of them. She pushed Clegane's hair back so that the entirety of his scarred face was bared, from his crown nearly to his jaw. She reached out to lay her hand upon his face, but Clegane's iron grip captured her wrist, grinding the bones together.

He growled angrily, "I thought you were past seeing that."

"I am, but you still don't believe that it could be true."

Clegane released her, and Sansa caressed his face, gently tracing the ridges of puckered and distorted flesh with her finger tips. When he quietly protested with an embarassed, "No!", Sansa shushed him. He closed his eyes and held his breath, expecting her to withdraw from him in revulsion any moment. Instead, she pressed her lips to the most brutal of the scarring, once, twice, a dozen times, and he choked back a sob of humiliation. She covered his face with her kisses, not even shying away from where his ear had been brutally melted away.

Sansa laid her forehead against his. "Sandor, look at me." He opened his eyes, and instead of rage, she saw his fear and self-loathing. "I went to King's Landing as a girl, hoping to find a true knight that would carry me away and love me for the rest of my days. In all the halls of the Red Keep, you were the only true knight. You are not the monster that they made you believe you are. The real monsters were all golden and beautiful."

She pressed a kiss against his lips and held it there until he returned it. "The beautiful monsters with their forked, lying tongues and hands full of gold have found me again, and still you are the only person willing to stand between them and me. I trust only you."

Leaning back, she took his hands in her own. "Tell me true. If you could have me for your own, would you want me?"

It took several long minutes for Clegane to work up the courage to rasp a barely audible, "Yes." He took a deep breath. "Yes, damn it, I'd have you!"

Clegane took Sansa's face in his hands and kissed her, and this time it was firm, possessive. Sansa thought she'd erupt in flame. At first he was gentle, holding her face in the depths of his cavernous hands, but as the moments slipped by and his passion had been stoked, his kisses had deepened and become rougher. He had held her waist to keep her at a careful distance, and his hands had trembled with the effort of restraining himself.

Suddenly, he broke away from her, panting, and stood towering over Sansa. "Are you sure, my Lady?"

Sansa threaded her fingers between his and stood beside him. "I won't be traded away again to a man that doesn't love me." She stepped closer and pressed her body against his and felt his desire rigid against her. "You are the only man I've ever known that cared nothing at all for my title, and I think that you love me." Clegane's eyes were dark and he didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe. Suddenly uncertain, she caught her lip between her teeth. "I hope that you do . . ."

Clegane captured her face between his hands again and bent to lay his forehead against hers. "I've always loved you, little bird, even though you were never mine to love. I've always known you could never be mine."

Sansa kissed him gently. "Winterfell may be Jon's to barter away, but my heart is mine alone to give. If you'd accept it, I'd place that into your protection as well."

Clegane lifted her chin gently and reclaimed her mouth. Still, he held his desires in check, waiting to be invited to touch her. She guided his hands around her body, and when she released them, he spread long fingers across her back. His kisses deepened and Sansa lost any sense of her surroundings. There was only Sandor Clegane's strong arms around her and his mouth pressing against hers. When Sansa found her back pressed against the stone wall, Sandor groaned with something like frustration tangled with lust and regret. He broke their kiss and pressed his forehead to the cool, damp stone. He squeezed his eyes shut and spread his hands across the wall, trying to recall himself, his honor warring with his desire.

Deprived of the pleasure of his mouth, Sansa explored his body. She pressed kisses into his weathered throat and into the coarse curls revealed by his open shirt. Her hands travelled down his ribs and across his belly. When she caressed her palm down the length of his burning arousal, he groaned and couldn't restrain himself from pressing into her touch.

She'd boldly untied the lacings of his trousers, and when her cool fingers met the blaze in his flesh, Sandor's restraint broke entirely. He'd crushed Sansa to his chest, and ground into her, moaning her name into her neck. Sansa's hands wrapped around his trim hips and buttocks hardened from years of riding and fighting, and pressed her body against his.

"Clegane, untie me."

Thick fingers used to gripping the hilt of a sword fumbled to untie her bodice. Drunk on the musk of his desire, Sansa's hands followed the arch of his back hungrily and she writhed against his solid warmth. When her questing fingers found his broad shoulders beneath his shirt, Sandor lifted her into his arms and tore through the laces with a growl of frustration. He toed out of his boots and kicked off his trousers as he bore Sansa to her bed. She released his shoulders only long enough to push the bodice of her gown and her shift off her shoulders.

Sandor pulled away what remained of Sansa's clothes and tossed them aside with his shirt, returning to her with kisses that devoured. When he took her in his arms and pressed her against him, she shivered in pleasure at the enveloping warmth of his body.

Sandor trailed kisses down her neck, but when he gently nipped at her shoulder, for a moment he was Ramsay. Sandor's eyes darkened with passion were Ramsay's black with malice. Sandor's soft bite was Ramsay's snarling teeth sinking deep into her flesh.

Sansa scuttled back from a shocked Sandor, and she covered herself and cowered in the corner of the bed and the wall, wrapping her arms around herself. "No, Ramsay, please! Don't!"

Devastated, Sandor choked, "Sansa! I'd never . . ." Sansa covered her mouth and choked on a sob. Sandor knelt beside her and held up his hands in surrender. His face crumpled with concern. "Gods, woman, what did he do to you?"

Sansa covered her face with her hands and wept into them. When Sandor reached for her, she pressed into the cold stone beside her bed and sobbed harder. Sandor sighed heavily and shifted his weight, intending to retreat and dress. Sansa's hand locked around his wrist.

"Please don't go. I'm sorry."

Sandor coaxed Sansa away from the wall and back into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. After a few minutes, Sandor began to carefully unwind her from around his body.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I should never have been so presumptuous."

Sansa turned imploring crystal eyes on Sandor, and she refused to release him. She turned her shoulder into the flickering firelight to reveal a ring of twisted flesh, unmistakably the scar from a human bite. Her lip trembled. "He would bite me until the blood flowed freely. He beat me with riding crops and pokers hot from the fire. He'd cut me with his knife and once a saw," Sansa extended a foot across the fine white sheets and Sandor grimaced at a deep indentation in the side of her calf, "but Roose burst in and stopped him." Sansa laughed convulsively and mopped snot away from her nose. "Lord Bolton said my bannermen were likely to notice if he took off my foot, and I'd be of no value at all if the wound festered and I died before producing an heir. When he'd had enough of my screaming, he'd rape me in the bed I was born in until I thought my flesh would tear away from my bones. I thought my bones would splinter and be ground into dust."

Sansa turned imploring eyes on her shield. "There was blood on the sheets every time, and they changed my sheets several times a day." Sandor gathered her to him again, and he rocked her. Sansa locked her arms around his neck and pressed her perfect face against his ruined flesh. She pressed her eyes shut and whispered into his neck, "I'll have you, and gladly, but don't let Jon force me to marry again."

Sandor nodded. "Do you want me to take you away from Winterfell?"

Reassured, Sansa sighed and let herself go limp against the protection of her shield's body. "There must always be a Stark at Winterfell."

Sandor pressed kisses into her hair, and Sansa let him lay her down and cover her. As the embers in the hearth smoldered and the light faded from the room, Sansa clung to him. Her breaths had lengthened, and he had thought she was asleep when she whispered, "I wished every day that I had let you carry me away after the Blackwater."

When Sansa woke in the morning, Sandor was gone. She refused to allow the maid to change the sheets, as they held his scent, and it was a comfort that kept her nightmares of Ramsay at bay.


	12. Chapter 12

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Solace

In the following days, Sansa's thoughts were never far from her shield, and Clegane was never far from his Lady. She was sure to rise early so that she could accompany him to the garrison, and though they spoke of many things, they never discussed that night. Sansa found small tasks to help with around the garrison, one day brushing horses, another helping to assemble chain mail, and occasionally even stitching an injury.

Clegane's men had become particularly solicitous, going out of their way to help her and grant her small courtesies. They seemed almost proud to have the Lady of Winterfell so obviously attached to their commander. Like Lyanna, she soon knew the names of all the men training with her shield. She absented herself from the midday meal, eating instead with Clegane and his men or Lyanna and the Mormont men. She knew the rumors and idle talk were now likely screams of protest in Jon's ears. Though he said nothing, he watched everything.

Her blade lessons continued, but with a different intensity. Clegane was more gentle, less demanding, and though she saw that his desire bloomed as hot as hers did when he touched her, he was more careful to not find himself wound and locked around her in mock combat. On the rare occasions that he did, it was he that had to break their contact, for Sansa was both unable and unwilling to release him. Some of the lords had come to watch now too. Sansa saw the venomous, envious looks they threw Clegane when his back was turned, and she realized that if she didn't choose soon, the consequences to her shield could be dire.

Sandor had scrupulously returned to his formal attitude, but Sansa still craved his touch. She was humiliated that her abuse at Ramsay's hands had come between them. She sought out opportunities to clasp Clegane's fingers as she passed through the door he held for her, hoping to tell him in small ways that her heart was still turned towards him. When he stood behind her at court she leaned into his body, and he clasped her waist, trusting to the folds of the Kingsguard cloak to hide his touch. If Jon saw, if anyone saw, they looked away and said nothing, at least where Clegane could hear them.

When Sansa could bear it no longer, she pled a headache and asked for her supper to be brought to her chambers. When the tray arrived, Sansa frowned. "I will dine with my sworn shield tonight. Please bring us another. And flagons of wine."

Although the maid said nothing, Sansa caught her wide-eyed glance in Clegane's direction. When she had gone, Sansa beckoned him into her rooms.

Glancing at the door, he commented, "Was that wise, my Lady?"

Sansa shrugged irritably. "I don't care. I tire of being beneath everyone's scrutiny." She glanced up at him. "I tire of you standing behind me, when I far prefer you seated beside me."

Clegane stepped closer and murmured. "That's not my place, little bird. It will never be my place."

The maid rapped on the door only seconds before entering, and she caught sight of a long glance between her mistress and the Hound, but again, she said nothing. Clegane watched her retreat.

"Sit with me."

Sansa had already seated herself and was picking at her plate. Her shield frowned down at her.

"My Lady, the king would be angry to see me sitting at table with the Lady of Winterfell in her chambers."

"My brother isn't here. Besides, I think my honor and my body are far beyond repair after what Ramsay did to me."

With great reluctance, Clegane sat across from her, his great long legs sprawling beneath the table. He watched her eating in silence for several minutes before taking a flagon of wine and filling his cup. They ate in silence punctuated only by chicken bones being thrown down with increasing force against the pewter platter. Clegane was furious about something, but she knew well enough by now that it would be best to let him speak when he was ready.

Finally, her shield wiped his face roughly and flung the napkin down atop the tray. "Is that it then? You've decided to let Ramsay own you the rest of your life?"

The bread in her throat was suddenly too dry to swallow, and Sansa snatched at her wine goblet and drained it. Clegane's features were contorted in an ugly expression that she couldn't interpret as disgust or derision. Either way, her stomach twisted with dread.

"Are you angry with me because I—"

"No."

"Then why?"

Clegane drained his cup and slammed it down on the table. "I'm angry because even rotting, Ramsay is still fucking you blind." He worked his jaw and turned the empty goblet between his thick fingers. He glanced up at her. "I'm angry because you trusted that pretty prancing whoremonger, Petyr Baelish, more than you did me. I'm angry because if you'd come with me when I asked, none of it would have fucking happened!"

Clegane rose abruptly, nearly overturning the table. Remembering himself, he turned and bowed courteously to Sansa, even though his chest still rose and fell rapidly as he choked down his rage.

"Good night, my Lady. It was a pleasure to dine with you."

Clegane snapped the door shut behind him.

Sansa laid awake long into the night, watching the candles diminish into fragrant molten pools. She tossed in her bed, thinking on what Clegane had said. Finally, in the early hours, she rose in her shift and opened the door.

"My Lady?" Clegane inquired with a wary grumble that sounded as though his anger had run its course, for now at least.

Sansa glanced both ways down the corridor before murmuring, "I can't sleep."

"Would you care to walk?"

She glanced up at Clegane, and he tensed. "Will you come back in?"

Her shield lifted a heavy brow. "Why, my Lady?"

"I'd like to finish our discussion."

"Did we not finish it over dinner?"

Sansa chewed on her lip, trying to decide. Staring at his worn boots, she answered haltingly, "I never wanted to be Ramsay's, and I'd not let fear of him come between us." She flicked her eyes up at Clegane, and was unable to look away when his eyes bored into her.

Clegane's eyes softened and he grimaced sympathetically. "There's more than Ramsay that stands between us, little bird, but a man that loved you would never have used you so poorly."

Though her heart promised to beat a hole through her throat and her stomach twisted through her embarrassment, Sansa gathered her courage to ask, "Will you show me?"

"Are you sure that is what you want?"

Her answer came slowly, but it was firm. "Yes."

With a final glance down the hall, Clegane followed Sansa back into her room and bolted the door behind him. She approached her shield nervously, her hands combing through already smoothed waves of her lustrous red tresses.

"My Lady, if this is not what you want—"

Sansa looked up and made a conscious effort to still her hands. "I want to be well and truly rid of Ramsay, and I want whatever can be found between us."

Clegane looked skeptical but nodded. He closed the distance between them and held out his hand, giving her every opportunity to change her mind.

Even though he'd stood for hours in the cold, dark hall outside her door, his hands were comfortingly warm. She sighed with pleasure as Clegane chafed her chilled skin, running his hands up the sleeves of her shift. Soon, Sansa found herself leaning into Clegane, her face pressed against the warmth exuding through the linen of his tunic.

As she laid against him, Clegane massaged his way up her arms and then began stroking and massaging his way down her spine. The warmth of his hands left a trail upon her skin, and her senses prickled pleasantly in response to his touch. Clegane bowed his head and pressed a kiss into the crown of her hair. When she did not protest, he bent lower, kissing the delicate skin behind her ear, his breath preceding his soft kisses as he traced the length of her neck.

"My Lady, shall I stop?"

Sansa sought his fingers and drew him with her as she backed towards the bed. "No."

Sansa slid her fingers between his sword belt and his belly, her nimble fingers tugging at it to release the buckle. He obliged, removing it and leaning his blade against the wall beside her bed. Sansa's breath was coming faster now, and she was eager to feel his skin beneath her fingertips. She snaked her fingers beneath the hem of his tunic, and when he felt her touch, Clegane drew in a sharp breath of surprise. Clegane's eyes met hers, and they asked again. She ran her hands up the back of his tunic, tracing the graceful arch of his broad back in answer, and he pulled it over his head and dropped it at the floor at her feet.

Sansa sat almost dizzily on the edge of her bed, and Clegane knelt before her. Tenderly he took her face between his hands and kissed her, teasing between her lips with his tongue. She tensed when he took her lip between his teeth and sucked it gently. He paused briefly, another silent question, and Sansa answered with a sigh and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Clegane opened her mouth with his and deepened their kiss.

Again he drew away, framing her face in her hands. Clegane searched her eyes, and he asked thickly, "Shall I stop now, little bird?"

Her mind becoming increasingly clouded with the desire that rose between them, Sansa breathed another, "No," and drew her shift off, tossing it aside.

Clegane wrapped a broad hand around the back of her neck, stroking the side of her throat lightly. He trailed his blunt fingers down her body, between her breasts. When he cupped a breast in his hand and gently squeezed, rolling the nipple beneath his thumb, Sansa tensed again, balling her fists against her hips to prevent herself from pushing him away.

Clegane's lips clamped together in a flash of anger. "Did he hurt you here?"

Sansa pressed her eyes shut, and a single tear streamed down her face. She nodded convulsively.

He sighed. "Shall I stop?"

Sansa gasped for breath and shook her head. She unclenched her hand and laced her fingers into his hair, drawing him back to her for a kiss. Clegane kissed her deeply while he stroked his hands down her body, and she soon relaxed into his touch again.

With gentle pressure, Clegane urged Sansa to lay back, and he wrapped his hands around her ribs. He kissed and tasted a path down the line of her body, and as her sighs deepened into groans of pleasure, Sansa finally relaxed beneath his touch, and her clenched knees fell open.

Sansa took a deep breath when Clegane slowly slid his hands up the insides of her thighs, the heat emanating luxuriously from his palms. Tentatively, he stroked a thumb gently over the moist, delicate flesh of her core.

His breath sighed across her skin. "I know he hurt you here . . . should I stop?"

When her answer didn't come, Clegane reluctantly with drew his touch, but Sansa caught his fingers in her own. She laced her thin, delicate fingers into his. "I trust you."

The mattress beneath her shifted as Clegane laid beside her, the ruined side of his face pressed into the downy softness of the bed, his nose grazing her own. He continued stroking gently between her thighs.

"A man that loved you would not have taken you until you were ready for him."

Clegane teased the tip of his finger into the silken folds of Sansa's body. She closed her eyes as waves of pleasure washed over her while he explored the contours of her core. He plied kisses against her neck, her breasts, her mouth. Soon her world was composed entirely of his blazing heat beside her, his lips upon hers, and his touch within her, gently, insistently teasing her into a dizzying abyss of pleasure. Distantly, Sansa registered that as her own desire spiraled, with every gasp and groan of pleasure that poured from her throat, Clegane's breaths came more quickly. When it seemed that the intensity of his touch had bordered upon shattering pleasure, he withdrew, panting.

"My Lady, Sansa, we must stop." When Clegane met her eyes, his gaze was unfocused, bleary with desire, and she saw that it pained him to pull away from her.

"Sandor . . ."

He pressed his eyes shut in gratification. Beatifically, he kissed her. "I dare not continue, or I'll lose myself entirely and claim you as my own."

Sansa's hand followed the line of his body and tugged at the laces of his breeks. When Clegane stilled her fingers with his hand, she turned her hand within his grasp and laid it against the searing heat of his desire, and he groaned at her touch.

"Little bird . . ." She gently squeezed him and stroked him. "By the Seven, Sansa, you must not . . . I can barely resist you as it is . . ." Sansa's touch became more insistent, and he groaned again, this time gathering her against him and thrusting against her body.

"Show me."

"Show you what?"

Sansa took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around her sworn shield. She pressed her body against his and whispered, "Show me how you would love me."

Unable to resist her when she asked so plainly, Clegane discarded what remained of his clothes and returned to love his Lady. He entered Sansa slowly to give her ravaged body time to stretch and accommodate him. She felt the pleasure of a being loved by a man that cherished her. Clegane moved slowly, deep within her slippery core, and Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and called out his name. Her hips rose to meet him, and though she urged him on with touch and body, still he was gentle. Within minutes, Sansa's desire peaked, and she dissolved beneath him. Clegane followed her immediately, and locked within one another's arms, both found peace and healing that neither would have believed possible.


	13. Chapter 13

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Sandor

"What's wrong?"

Sansa glanced at the window. Dawn must surely be many hours away, and the coals in the hearth were still sizzling, their scant light outlining Clegane's body in the dark as he perched on the edge of the bed. She reached out and stroked a hand down his back, and he sighed deeply.

"Nothing, my Lady. Go back to sleep."

Sansa sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. "Why are you leaving?"

Clegane turned the scarred side of his face into his shoulder to glance at her in the dark. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to wake you."

Sansa scooted closer to him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. His eyes followed her hungrily. She placed her palm on his cheek to encourage him to turn to her, and when he lifted his face, she kissed him. Clegane's kiss was hesitant at first, but she allowed her lips to linger upon his, and she felt his resolve soften. He opened his mouth to deepen the kiss with a sigh, and Sansa's desire rekindled within her.

Clegane twisted his body and gathered her against him, and the intensity of his kiss changed. It became infinitesimally firmer, and Sansa had sensed the urgency of whatever had prompted him to rise in the night was slipping away. Clegane's kiss asked a little less, and took slightly more. Hoping to encourage him, Sansa laid her hand on his chest, and felt his heart beating erratically beneath her touch. He took a quick breath, as though her touch surprised him, though he did not stop her. She caressed her fingertips down Clegane's body, and was surprised to find him exquisitely rigid.

He groaned deeply into their kiss when she wrapped her fingers around him, sweeping her thumb over his moist tip. Clegane broke their kiss and tore her touch away. "I am sorry, my Lady."

Sansa blinked, confused. "Why are you sorry?"

Torn between humiliation and desire, he pressed his eyes shut. "I woke wanting you, and I knew you wouldn't want . . ." He panted softly, trying to gather his thoughts. Clegane opened his eyes and looked at her in deepest misery. "I knew that you would wake and regret what happened between us. I thought if I was gone in the morning, you could forget and maybe forgive me."

Sansa's brow creased and she demanded, "Where would you go?"

Clegane turned his face away. "Somewhere you'd need not look upon me."

"Clegane . . . Clegane, look at me." He turned his gaze back to Sansa, bathed in self-loathing. She caressed the puckered and ruined contours of his face with her fingertips and then cradled it in her palm. He pressed his face into her touch in deepest misery. Sansa laid her forehead against his and whispered, "It's no hardship to look upon you. It would wound me to the heart if you left me."

"I've dishonored you, my Lady."

Sansa stroked her thumb tenderly over the ridges of Clegane's scarred cheek. "No. You've stitched my soul back together and driven away the darkness. If you will but stay, I'll keep you beside me always."

Clegane searched her eyes. "I cannot. One day soon, you'll be forced to marry, and I'll be forced to listen outside your door while you take another man into your bed. If I were to stay, I'd burn for you, and it would drive me mad."

"Stay, and I will tend your flame."

Sansa kissed him, and though Clegane returned her kiss, his lips where tight.

"I must not." He trembled with the wanting beneath her touch, but would not allow himself to accept it.

"Stay."

"My Lady . . ."

"Sansa." She breathed her name into their kiss.

"Lady Sansa . . ." Tentatively, she felt one of his broad, warm hands spread across her back, and she smiled into the next kiss, softer, deeper, more slowly.

"No. Just . . . Sansa. Your Sansa." She reclaimed her fingers from his loosening grip and held his face and kissed him. Clegane took a deep breath and opened his mouth willingly to her kiss, tentatively stroking her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

"My Sansa . . ." His touch still asked, afraid to believe. One searing hand found its way up her leg and wrapped itself around her thigh. The hand on her back slid down to her ribs and Clegane gently stroked the swell of her breast with his thumb.

Firmly, she repeated, "Yes. Your Sansa." She rose on her knees beside him. He looked up at her, hopeful, but still not believing. Sansa straddled his hips and lowered herself onto him, relishing the feel of him filling her, and she reveled in the giving. She knew now that if the giving was of her own free will, it would be pure pleasure. He tensed below her, as though afraid to move, but he groaned softly in his deep baritone. Clegane had settled his hands on her hips, his fingers wrapped around her waist. Sansa captured his face again and forced him to look at her again. "Your . . . Sansa."

"My little bird."

Sansa smiled into their kiss, knowing she had won him, knowing that he'd relented and that he'd not leave her now. "Yes, your little bird. Only yours."

Clegane held her hips firmly and pressed himself deeper into her. He pressed kisses into her throat, and forgetting himself, he sucked gently at her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin. Clegane froze, realizing at once what he had done, but the shadow of Bolton didn't rise between them this time. Sansa tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed the crown of his head. She pressed her body against his and rocked her hips against him to let him know that it was alright, that he should continue loving her, that he shouldn't stop. Not tonight, not ever.

When his release came, Clegane held her against him, his face buried in her shoulder for a long time. She laid her cheek against his hair and combed it through her fingers, waiting patiently for when he would be ready to release her, waiting for him to gather his thoughts and speak to her. Though they'd agreed that there would be no oaths between them, wordless oaths had been given and oaths had been accepted, in the flesh and in her heart.

Finally, Clegane laid back against the pillows and gathered her to his side. He looked up at the ceiling, and she waited.

"Sansa . . ." He paused as though rolling her name across his tongue, tasting it, savoring its flavor now that it had been given to him. "I don't like Clegane any more than I did Hound. Do you think you could . . . when it's just us . . . would you call me by my given name?"

Sansa raised her head from the pillow so she could look at him properly. She smiled warmly for him, and his lips twitched in the shadow of a smile in return. "Yes . . . Sandor. Nothing would make me happier."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Sansa woke again, dawn was creeping through the shutters, and Sandor was dressing. She captured his hand when it emerged from his Stark tunic, and her eyes asked him again to stay.

Sandor smiled broadly this time, and it transformed his face entirely. He bent to give her a quick kiss. "I'm sorry, little bird. I'd lie with you the rest of the day if I could, but it wouldn't do for me to be found in your bed rather than at your door." He stroked his hand over her tousled hair and smiled fondly, his eyes soft. "Go back to sleep. I'll rouse you in a few hours."

Sansa smiled contentedly and released Sandor. She watched him dress, though he turned away self-consciously. He kissed her again before creeping in the dark to the door. When he'd gone, Sansa fell quickly back asleep, his warmth still trapped beneath the sheets, and her dreams were full of him.

When Sandor's knock and formal, "My Lady," filtered through her door, she stretched luxuriously, her body aching pleasantly. She wondered at this new sensation, an ache that slowly stirred her desire. She glanced at her door, too aware that he stood on the other side, unreachable. For the first time, Sansa longed for her lover's return. She tasted Sandor upon her lips and her flesh still felt the echo of his touch. She was loath to leave the warmth of her bed, fragrant with the musk of their lovemaking. For a few more minutes, she burrowed deeper into the feather bed, savoring the sensation of a woman well and thoroughly loved.

Every night after that, Sandor spent the night in Sansa's bed, rather than at her door. Never again did she rise from bloodied sheets, nor did she dream of Ramsay Bolton again.


	14. Chapter 14

Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Lord Stark

"How many women have you laid with?"

Sandor scowled down at her, but she lifted her brow expectantly. She'd seen him give that scowl to countless men, and normally they would quail under his sneer and flee before him. Sansa had the best of him now, and most of his glares had lost their potency.

Seeing that she'd not relent, Sandor turned his eyes down the empty corridor and shrugged irritably. They continued in silence. When alone, Sansa had taken to gripping his bicep, a much more intimate touch than the expected courtly gesture of simply taking his arm. She squeezed his arm and laid her head against it, and he sighed irritably but laced the fingers of his free hand with hers.

"Why would you ask that, little bird?"

Sansa shrugged. "Curiosity, I suppose. I wondered how many women I had shared your heart with."

Sandor stopped abruptly in the hall and turned to face her. Taking her hands in his, he replied flatly, "None." Sansa lifted a brow skeptically. Sandor threw glances up the hall to ensure they were unobserved, and he huffed uncomfortably. His voice was a low growl. "Whores, more than I can count. As many as Lannister coin can buy." Sansa felt heat crawl up her neck, and her stomach twisted in embarrassment. She looked down at their clasped hands. Roughly, he continued, "There's no joy in fucking a whore. You try not to look at her, because she's too disgusted to look at your face and she's terrified you'll beat her bloody. There's no pleasure in it when she sniffles and her hand trembles when she takes your money. You try not to notice that she's relieved that it's over. In the end, you leave feeling blacker than before and filthy to the core."

Sandor placed a rough finger gently beneath her chin and tipped her face to meet his. "Never before has a woman invited me to her bed willingly or called out my name in desire. No one has ever anticipated my presence with pleasure, nor held me to them when we've finished. I've never slept in another woman's arms, and never before has it been difficult to leave a woman's bed." He lowered his face and kissed her softly. He turned her back down the hall, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Sandor."

Sandor glanced down at Sansa and once again laced his fingers into hers. "A Hound will die for you, but he'll never lie."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Do you want to be the Warden of the North?"

Sandor lifted his arm from where it draped across his face to glare at Sansa. He snorted in derision before dropping it back against his eyes. "No."

Sansa sat up and laid a hand across his belly. She traced the silvered lines of scars long healed. "You wouldn't want to take me to wife?" 

Slowly, Sandor's heavy arm drew away from his face and scowled thoughtfully at her. She'd begun to relearn the meanings of his various scowls.

"I never said that." Warily, Sandor propped himself on his elbows and glared intently at Sansa. "What have you got turning in your pretty head, little bird? The King of the North wouldn't give you to me, not even if I spilled out every drop of northern blood to get to you."

Sansa smiled gently at her sworn shield. She pushed his thick, tousled hair back from his face and laid her hand against his scarred cheek. In the depths of his eyes, she saw his hopeless longing for her plain and that it tore through him every time they discussed her marriage. Sandor laid his enormous hand over hers, pressing her precious touch against his ruined face, savoring it for as long as it would last.

Softly, ruefully, Sandor continued, "He won't wait much longer for you to choose. He needs alliances with dozens of families to secure the North." Clearly dreading the answer, he flicked his eyes up at Sansa. "Have you decided, then?"

Sansa leaned close to Sandor, intending to kiss him, but he jerked his face stubbornly away. Sansa sighed, resting her hand on his breast. "I've chosen. I'm going to tell Jon today."

The muscles of Sandor's jaw clenched, and from behind his teeth, he rumbled, "And what of me?"

Sansa turned his face and was unsurprised to see rage and resentment kindling in his eyes. "You are my sworn shield. Until the Stranger takes one of us, I'll keep you beside me so long as you will consent to stand with me."

"And what of your new fucking husband?"

Sansa held his long face in her hands. His cheeks were blazing coals, stoked by anger and humiliation. They singed her palms as she stroked the tips of her thumbs over his high cheekbones.

"I made the mistake of letting you leave me once, and I regretted it almost every day after. You'd have cherished me when every other man only wanted to ravish me or break me for my title." She laughed bitterly. "As though being the Warden of the North is such a prize!"

Sobering, she continued, "Not a single one of them have a scrap of decency or honor. None of them have the strength to resist what is beating at our door."

Sandor sneered, "And your new husband does?"

Sansa took one of his scarred hands in her own, and stroked gently across his knuckles. She watched the course of her fingers as they plummed the valleys between the bones. "My new husband will rule the North with a hand like iron. He will dispense justice quickly, fairly, and honorably. He will stand strong through the harshest winter, and he won't shy away from the killing that must be done to secure the North." Sandor's lip curled with doubt, disgust. His breath came fast, and Sansa knew he was struggling to press down his anger. She looked back up into his eyes. "He can have every grain of ice from the Neck to the Wall, and as long as I draw breath, I will belong to Sandor Clegane alone."

Although his mouth softened marginally, Sandor spat, "And who is this new paragon?"

Sansa tried again to kiss him, and again he turned away his face. She pressed her kiss and her love against the ridge of muscle that bulged in his neck. "Get dressed and you will find out. I've already told my intended that I will have him, and I need to speak to Jon before he realizes what I've done."

Sandor's head snapped back, and his eyes burned with the betrayal. "And you didn't tell me? Is he coming here?"

Sansa pressed her lips together. "He arrived weeks ago."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Sandor held the door to Jon's quarters open for her when the King of the North had grunted his greeting. Through the open door, she could see her brother's unruly curls spilling over the back of a deep chair pulled before the fire. Sansa captured Sandor's hand and held it fast, hidden in the folds of her skirt, though he refused meet her eye. His fingers tremored almost imperceptibly, and she could feel that he was wound so tightly, he was bound to snap at the slightest provocation.

"You will see. All will be well. Trust me."

He lowered his lips to her ear, but at the last moment, he shook his head and murmured, "If you say so, my Lady."

Sansa waited for Sandor to close the door before charging around Jon's chair. "I've been waiting to know for certain, and I've decided."

Jon looked up blearily from beneath his heavy black brows in surprise. He lifted his head wearily from the hand that had propped it up, and Sansa suspected he had wiled away the entire night brooding into the flames of his hearth. He was crumpled into his chair still in his black Night's Watch furs, and he'd not even removed his boots. His eyes were smudged with exhaustion.

Jon rallied, taking a deep breath and pulling himself up straighter into his chair. "You've chosen? I hope to the Seven that it's one of the southrons, because we need the arms and supplies to feed the—"

Sansa interrupted flatly, "You don't need my cunt or my title to secure the north."

Jon's eyes flew wide at his fair sister's crude language. "The Hound's tongue is wearing off on you. It's unbecoming."

Sansa narrowed her eyes. She braced her hands on the arms of his chair and brought her face low into Jon's. "Did you hear what I said?"

Warily, Jon growled, "I heard you."

Sansa stood before the hearth and nodded curtly. "When our bannermen see the White Walkers, they will believe, and they will come. I'll not risk marrying some petty lord who will send his troops north and take me south. I'm the last Stark in Winterfell, and at Winterfell I will stay."

Jon sat bolt upright in his chair. "Now hold on! I'm a—"

"Bastard Stark." John's eyes smoldered and his lips creased into a crag of stone. "In my heart, you are my brother true, but there will always be men who question your authority. Not because of your blood, but because of your birth. I'm Eddard Stark's oldest living child, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Sansa grimaced sympathetically. "A legitimate Stark."

Jon's face crumpled in anger and frustration. "So you've decided to not take a husband?"

Sansa cocked her head. "I've chosen a husband that will be more than willing to remain in the North and defend Winterfell against the onslaught that is coming. We will remain here, and we will be joint Warden and Wardeness of the North."

Jon sighed in relief. "At least it's a bannerman. Who?"

"Sandor Clegane."

Jon shot out of his chair. "Absolutely not! Out of the question! He's obviously devoted to you, but Catelyn Stark would join the White Walkers before she'd rest easy in her grave knowing that you were wasted on the Hound!"

Sansa smiled placidly at her brother and folded her hands patiently at her waist, waiting for him to take a breath. When he did, she calmly commented, "I think, my liege, you will find that I am unsuitable to be married to anyone else."

"What?" Jon's eyes fell on Sansa's hands at her waist. Misinterpreting, Jon's tone softened, and he grimaced sympathetically. "If this is about Ramsay—"

"I'm well recovered from Ramsay's abuse. I doubt anyone else would have me, once they realized I'd lay a Clegane pup in their cradle." Sansa spread her hands across her belly, and though the wool still laid flat across her body, her meaning was clear.

"You can't be . . ."

"Six weeks have passed since my last moonblood. Never before has it been late."

Jon ran his hands through his hair, and the raven curls stood on end. "We could delay until after—"

Sansa followed him as he crossed the room in agitation. "After my child is born? When my new husband took me away, do you think I'd leave my sworn shield behind? If you marry me away to anyone else, I'll ensure any child of my body will be Clegane's."

Jon whirled and glared at her. "Then you're no better than Cercei Lannister!"

"I was abandoned in King's Landing long enough. I learned, and I learned well, or I'd not have survived. The difference is—"

"There's no difference! Your father'd die of shame to know you became that cur's whore!"

"The difference is-"

"I'd never have believed—"

They were cut off when the door to Jon's chambers crashed open, and Sandor barged in, great sword in his hand and his eyes blazing. He took a single glance at Jon towering over Sansa, nearly nose to nose, and growled, "You'd do well to stand down, my Leige, or I swear to the Seven I'll cut you into so many pieces the dogs in the kennel won't find them all."

Warily, Jon shuffled back from Sansa, eyeing Sandor's blade. Sandor held out his hand expectantly, and Sansa took it. He pressed her behind him as he edged into the room, positioning himself between Sansa and her brother.

"This is your idea, no doubt. I'd have expected nothing less from a dog that crawled out of the Lannister kennels!"

Sandor drew himself up to his full height. Into his shoulder, he asked Sansa quietly, "What's he on about?"

"Jon doesn't like my choice of husband."

Surprised, Sandor's heavy brows shot up, and he growled quietly, "I doubt I'll like your choice much either, but you damn sure didn't ask my leave."

"You didn't tell him? He doesn't know?" Jon gaped in honest stupor between his sister and her shield.

"It's not for me to approve or disapprove of Lady Sansa's choice. My place is to go where I'm bidden and accept her decision. I don't have to marry the fucker. What difference should it make to me?"

Jon leaned back against a table and took up a flagon of wine. He frowned into his goblet as he poured. "He's a brute and a drunk from what I hear. No family or lands to speak of."

Sandor grunted angrily. "Is that the problem? You're worried you won't get enough out of her?" Jon opened his mouth to retort, but Sandor plunged on, "First your father sold her to be the wife of the Lannister bastard, and he'd have beaten and raped her until her blood ran down the walls of the Red Keep if Lord Tyrion and I hadn't been there to stop him. Then the Lannisters gave her to the imp. When the seven hells broke loose, fucking Baelish tried to take her for himself before selling her to Ramsay fucking Bolton," Clegane's voice trembled as he roared, "who beat her and cut her and raped her until she couldn't stand! And where were you, you worthless cunt? Pissing off the edge of the world at the Wall!" Sandor lowered his sword and slapped the goblet of wine out of Jon's hand. He towered over Jon. "Who the fuck are you to question who Lady Sansa marries? You're not her father. You're just her bastard fucking brother!" Finally coming to his senses, Sandor retreated a step from the King of the North, panting, and concluded resentfully, "My liege."

"Where were you, when Lady Sansa was being so foully mistreated?"

Sandor roared, "Trying to keep Lady Arya from getting skewered by any fucker that happened by and realized she wasn't what she appeared to be!"

Jon's eyes glittered dangerously black. He regarded Clegane coldly. "You'd give your life for my sister, wouldn't you?"

"I'm her sworn sword. I'd follow her to the brink of the seventh hell and take her back from the Stranger himself."

"Would you protect her even from her husband?"

Sandor nodded his head curtly, seething. He lowered his eyes that Jon would be unable to see how the question caused jealousy to twist in his gut. "Even if it cost me my own head."

"Would you swear fealty to me as your liege lord?"

Suspiciously, Sandor glanced back at Sansa. She stood calmly beside the hearth, her hands folded again at her waist. She nodded her approval, and he answered, "Aye, whatever she bids me do, I'll do."

Jon braced his hands on the table before him and glared down into its fine grain. "May Catelyn Stark forgive me, but Lady Sansa Stark bids that you remain here at Winterfell and serve beside her as the Warden of the North. She says she will marry only you. As her liege and her brother, I can't say that she has my blessing, but I will grant her request."

The tip of Clegane's blade dipped and nearly slipped from his hand in his shock. "What?" He looked to Sansa for confirmation. When she nodded, he asked, "Why would you give me Lady Sansa? I'm no lord; I'm not even a fucking knight! I've got neither the bloodline to deserve it and no men to pledge to your banner." He glanced angrily at Sansa. "I'm no fucking use to either of you!"

Sansa took Sandor's hand, and he glared at her miserably. "You were the first man to place his cloak on my shoulders, protecting my honor even when the King of Westeros would not. You gave me your cloak again, even when I was too much the fool to accept it. Yours will be the only cloak I will accept now."

Jon ground his molars together audibly as he watched them. "You've decades of military experience and you're one of the few men I'd dare not cross swords with. Your lousy temperament aside, you're absolutely devoted to Lady Sansa, and apparently, she's equally devoted to you." Jon glanced angrily at his sister. "Besides, I'm told that the heir of House Stark will be a Clegane, regardless of who I marry Sansa off to. It may as well be you. Apparently, the only way to guarantee Stark honor is to hand our house over to the care of a Clegane."

Jon smirked with satisfaction when he saw Clegane mouth wordlessly, gaping between the two Starks. He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "I can't do anything about your blood or banner, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Sandor lowered his brows suspiciously. Jon continued, "Since you have neither lands nor men nor coin to offer as bride price, I have one condition if you are to marry Lady Sansa."

Sandor's growl was low. "What condition?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"It's hard, isn't it? Watching him leave?"

Sandor grunted his agreement. He wasn't used to watching an army leave without him. It rankled. "I've no idea how to be a lord, little lone Warden of the North. The only thing I've ever been any good at is the killing. I'd gladly trade my position for his."

Jon had passed out of sight hours ago, and the wagons were only specks in the horizon. "It wasn't easy for him either. He had to choose between his new brother's blade guarding his back and your experience safeguarding Winterfell." Sansa looked up into her husband's brooding eyes. "He can get a hundred strong blades. He trusts you to maintain order amongst his bannermen and to train the next wave of reinforcements. The survival of Westeros depends upon our success here." The sky was darkening and it tasted of snow. "Besides, no one is more qualified to defending Winterfell against a Lannister attack, should Cersei betray her word." Sandor grunted, leaving no doubt that he believed that that was precisely what she planned. Sansa squeezed his fingers on the balcony railing. "He left you here because you are the only man qualified to be the Warden of the North."

Sandor looked intently at his wife. "You really believe that?"

"I do." Sansa raised her chin in greeting as Arya rode into the courtyard, fleeing the gathering dusk. Her color was high and her hair whipped around her face like a pennant. She looked deeply pleased.

"Is that why you wanted me?"

"No. I wanted you for yourself, but that doesn't make the rest of it any less true. Come, Arya has yet to give her allegiance to the new Warden of the North."

Arya was hurtling the steps two at a time, breathless. Sandor watched the crown of tangled brown hair advance with trepidation. "She's more likely to give me a knife in the belly."

Sansa grinned. "Probably, but it wouldn't be your first. She holds you in higher regard than you realize. She did strike you off her kill list." Sandor hmph'ed genially. Arya reached their balcony and smiled broadly upon seeing Sansa and Sandor, their clasped hands barely visible beneath the cuff of Sansa's furs. Sansa returned her sister's smile and murmured into Sandor's ear, "Jon's her favorite brother but you're a close second. I think she'll be quick to accept that there's a new Lord Stark in Winterfell."


End file.
